MEMORIES 89 



Old oaks whose arms at set of sun 



Wove pictures weird and black, 

 Whose roots crept feeling round the sides 



Like the folds of a python's back. 



For the sand was fretted and hollowed about 



By the stream's unresting play ; 

 Except where the eddies, gone tired to sleep, 



In silence and shallow lay. 



And here like lamps the lilies shone, 



And king-cups gemmed the spot. 

 All fringed to the side with the ruby bell, 



And the turkis forget-me-not. . -tov^^ccrir^ 



And here the crowfoot bloomed, who folds 



Her beauty from the moon, 

 And feathered milfoil here that holds 



The dew until the noon. 



Low-circling have I often seen, 



About the fall of night. 

 The white owl hunt the mouse, so soft 



You might not hear her flight. 



^) 



