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 Long twilight this, at least, shone clear, That all the children and the deer, Whom every day he went to see Out in the park, belonged to him.

"God help the folk that next him sits He fidgets so, with his poor wits." The neighbours said on Sunday nights When he would go to Church to "see the lights!" Although for these he used to fix His eyes upon a crucifix In a dark corner, staring on Till everybody else had gone. And sometimes, in his evil fits, You could not move him from his chair— You did not look at him as he sat there, Biting his rosary to bits, While pointing to the Christ he tried to say "Take it away."

Nothing was dead: He said "a bird" if he picked up a broken wing, A perished leaf or any such thing Was just "a rose"; and once when I had said He must not stand and knock there any more, He left a twig on the mat outside my door.

Not long ago The last thrush stiffened in the snow, While black against a sullen sky The sighing pines stood by. But now the wind has left our rattled pane To flutter the hedge-sparrow's wing, The birches in the wood are red again And only yesterday The larks went up a little way to sing