208 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 



And who knows (I sometimes wondered) 

 If the disembodied soul 

 Of old Hector once of Troy 

 Might not take a dreary joy 



Here to enter if it thundered, 

 Rolling up the thunder-roll ? 



It was hard to answer, often ; 



But the birds sang in the tree, 



But the little birds sang bold 



In the pear-tree green and old, 

 And my terror seemed to soften 



Through the courage of their glee. 



Oh the birds, the tree, the ruddy 



And white blossoms sleek with rain ! 



Oh, my garden rich with pansies ! 



Oh, my childhood's bright romances ! 

 All revive, like Hector's body, 



And I see them stir again. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



AUTUMN FIRES 1 



IN the other gardens 



And all up the vale, 

 From the autumn bonfires 



See the smoke trail ! 



1 From Poems and Ballads; copyright, 1895, 1896, by 

 Charles Scribner's Sons. 



