Birds in those branches did sing. 

 Blackbird and throstle and linnet, 

 But she walking there was by far the most fair — 

 Lovelier than all else within it, 

 Blackbird and throstle and linnet. 



But blossoms to berries do come. 

 All hanging on stalks light and slender, 

 And one long summer's day charmed that lady away. 

 With vows sweet and merry and tender ; 

 A lover with voice low and tender. 



Moss and lichen the green branches deck ; 

 Weeds nod in its paths green and shady : 

 Yet a light footstep seems to wander in dreams. 

 The ghost of that beautiful lady. 

 That happy and beautiful lady. 



V^^ALTER DE LA MARE 



MOWING 



THERE was never a sound beside the wood but one, 

 And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. 

 What was it it whispered ? I knew not well myself ; 

 Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun. 

 Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound — 

 And that was why it whispered and did not speak. 

 It was no dream of the gift of idle hours. 

 Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf : 

 Anything more than the truth would have seemed too 



weak 

 To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows, 

 Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers 

 6 



