The greyness of the distant hills 



Is silvered in the lucid East, 

 See, now the sheeny plumed cock 



Wags haughtily his crest. 



' O come you out, O come you out, 



Lily, and lavender, and lime ; 

 The kingcup swings his golden bell, 



And plumpy cherries drum the time. 



* O come you out, O come you out, 

 Roses, and dew, and mignonette ; 



The sun is in the steep blue sky. 

 Sweetly the morning star is set.' 



WALTER DE LA MARE. 



W 



THE THIEF 



HEN the paths of dream were mist-mufiied. 

 And the hours were dim and small 



(Through still nights on wet orchard grass 

 Like rain the apples fall), 



Then naked-footed, secretly. 

 The thief dropped over the wall. 



Apple-boughs spattered mist at him. 

 The dawn was as cold as death, 



With a stealthy joy at the heart of it. 

 And the stir of a small sweet breath, 



And a robin breaking his heart on song 

 As a young child sorroweth. 

 40 



