ONCE (it was a good while ago, when I was a boy), I 

 tried to write a poem. The first stanza ran : 



I heard him when the reeds were young 



Along a clover sea ; 

 Above the purple waves he hung, 

 And o'er the fragrant waters flung 



His storm of ecstasy; 



and the last stanza ran : 



He 1 s left the meadows burnt and hot, 

 He 's left me lone and drear ; 

 But still within the white-birch lot 

 Cheeps Chickadee whom I forgot 

 While Bobolink was here ; 



74 



