Page:The Glen.djvu/7

 Low rolls November’s sun along the hill, Dim grow the skies and early falls the dark, No music now from blackbird, thrush, or lark; Only the robin pipes his ditty still, While to the swallow’s nest above the sill New tenants come to find a welcome ark, Where undisturbed by steps or Loki’s bark They find a refuge in the storm-swept gill.

Like brown moths flitting in the dimsey light, Each evening brings them to our window view, And every morning as the dawn grows white They fly their careful business to pursue, And thus secure from frost, or rain, or fright, The gentle wrens keep house the winter through.