The Day

Dewy, dewy lawn-slopes, Is this the day she comes? O wild-flower face of Morning, Must you never wake? Silvery, silvery sea-line, Does she come to-day? O murmurous, murmurous birch-leaves, Beneath your whispering shadow She will surely pass; And thrush beneath the black-thorn And white-throat in the pine-top, Sing as you have never sung, For she will surely come!

The lone green of the lawn-slope, The grey light on the sky-line, The mournful stir of birch-leaves, The thin note of the brown thrush, And the call of troubled white-throats Across the afternoon!-- Ah, Summer now is over, And for us the season closed, For she who came an hour ago Has gone again-- Has gone!