THE MELANCHOLY CRANE 



And even when days were rich with sun- 

 shine and breezes flowed over the lake like 

 sifted swansdown, and haze stood over the 

 far-off hills in a purple veil of glory even 

 then there was a withering chill in the heart 

 of the melancholy crane. For what was to 

 him the rose of the dying sunset beneath a 

 dazzling west, the very strength and heart 

 of the passing day in one lingering farewell? 

 What mattered the gray blossoms of dawn 

 falling from the east when daylight shook 

 her white and fleecy robes of morning down 

 to the horizon line and stepped out to waken 

 a sleeping world? All color and change were 

 but the rounds of a weary time, a senseless 

 repetition of light and shade. For, mark 

 you, a ruthless hunter had shot his awkward 

 but faithful mate, and thus nevermore was 

 there peace in the breast of the melancholy 

 crane. 



How like a slanting shadow he appeared 

 as he drifted across the marshes. Just such a 

 shadow as a vagrant cloud will cast on bend- 

 ing wheat, or on the billowy sweep of prairie- 

 grasses when the sun flashes from shade to 

 brilliance, and back again to shadow so 

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