I2 9 



lances, the fine, white, filamented stars of 

 woodland lilies each in its hour of blossom 

 lit up this sylvan shade. 



What birds sang over them through days 

 and nights of June ! What dews distilled ! 

 What rain fell soft out of heaven ! What sun- 

 rise rose red beyond the river ! What magic 

 the moon wrought when mists came up from 

 the water to lave the thirsty leaves ! 



The friendly water ! Always the voice of 

 it booming, babbling, laughing down the 

 ripples thrilled through leaf and bough to 

 the woods' deep heart. It sang promise, 

 prophecy promise of rain in season, proph- 

 ecy of long days to fill up the tale of years, 

 lead on to green old age. 



The friendly, fickle water ! Still it races 

 to the sea leaping, laughing, singing aloud 

 the old, old song of hope and peace. Still 

 it sparkles in sunshine, plays in the dancing 

 eddies; though all the trees stand ghostly 

 bare of leaf, of bark, of bough. The spring's 

 roiled tribute drips slow to its gliding breast. 

 Fire has burned out the green life of moss 

 and fern. Here and there some constant 

 flower upthrusts from a cleft root a maid- 

 en mourning on the field of fight where her 

 green, tall lover stands stark and dead. 



The hill -top has been deadened over. 

 9 



