A FLOWER-PIECE. 



Wandering of late beside a northern shore 

 That longed for Summer, and the wild beach grass, 

 And dip of oar, and plash of pearly feet, 

 And happy laughter on its lonely sands, 

 I heard a young voice carrolling some song. 

 Nor knew I was in elf-land while I heard. 

 It sang, and slowly trembled into rest — 

 Slowly, because the earth was loath to leave 

 The high melodious dalliance. 



But before 

 The singing fled to silence, eagerly 

 A rustle and a rush of flying wings. 

 Like leaflets blown before a frosty blast 

 When woods stand shivering, caught and bore it off! 



Lost in the airy clamor of their flight. 

 And, as they went, wild music followed them ; 

 The tune the breeze winds in and out the grass. 

 The tune to which the clouds and sunshine play 



