Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/106

 Yet, with low moss Heavenly dews do house, bright sunbeams Swim i’ the bark, yea, winds the faded Bracken woo. But me—Ah, Death, Death, In my hand even thine lies loose!

Ah, but once!— The Spring dawn. . . the touch. . . the whisper. . . Oh, the dread! and tears a many, Blinding—till the leafy branches Quiver’d yet, but thou wast flown!

Ah, once more! The blue summer-night,. . . the woodward Chamber singing to the passing Of thy wing! . . . I burst the dream-webs, Up I sprang! . . . But thou wast flown!