Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/200



No bird is singing In cloud or on tree, No eye is beaming Glad welcome to me; The forest is tuneless; Its brown leaves fast fall— Changed and withered, they fleet Like hollow friends all.

No door is thrown open, No banquet is spread; No hand smoothes the pillow For the Wanderer's head; But the eye of distrust Sternly measures his way, And glad are the cold lips That wish him—good day!

Good day!—I am grateful For such gentle prayer,