The Birds and Poets 185 



"These are the days that try us; these the hours 

 That find, or leave us, cowards doubters of Heaven, 

 Skeptics of self, and riddled through with vain 

 Blind questionings as to Deity. Mute, we scan 

 The sky, the barren, wan, the drab, dull sky, 

 And mark it utterly blank. 



When sodden leaves are merged in melting mire, 

 And garden plots lie pilfered, and the vines 

 Are strings of tangled rigging reft of green, 

 Crude harps whereon the winter wind shall play 

 His bitter music on a day like this, 

 We, harboring no Hellenic images, stand 

 In apathy mute before our window pane, 

 And muse upon the blankness." 



C. L. Cleaveland makes a valiant effort to be 

 cheerful about it, but confesses his failure: 



"In the high wind creaks the leafless tree 

 And nods the fading fern; 

 The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be, 

 And cold the sun does burn. 

 Then ho, hello ! though calling so, 

 I cannot keep it down; 

 The tears arise into my eyes, 

 And thoughts are chill and brown." 



Burns' famous line: 



"November's chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh," 

 makes one almost shiver! 



