THE MARSHES IN APRIL 



Perhaps it may be the dry sedges of yester- 

 year, overtopped with the living green of 

 fresher herbage. Maybe it is the flutelike, 

 plaintive whistle of the greater yellow-leg 

 plover. Or it might be that it is the change 

 from sun to shade, from shadow back to sun- 

 shine, that steeps the marshes in such a tide 

 of passionate regret. At least, the touch is 

 there. And lying on one of the tumbled 

 heaps of forgotten grass, with the sigh of 

 late afternoon winds through the yellowing 

 cane, an autumn wraith seems moving across 

 the dusky waters. Old loves, old days, old 

 tendernesses come back to haunt you, and an 

 echo floats wistfully down the sweet spring 

 air. 



"Oh! death in life, the days that are no more." 



