pHINA Jl.OSE - J3EAUTY ALWAYS JST EW, 
|8V LATE and sweet, too sweet, too late ! 
• What nightingale will sing to thee? 
The empty nest, the shivering tree, 
The dead leaves by the garden gate, 
And cawing crows for thee will wait, 
O sweet and late ! 
Where wert thou when the soft June nights 
Were faint with perfume, glad with song? 
Where wert thou when the days were long, 
And steeped in summer’s young delights ? 
What hopest thou now but checks and slights, 
Brief days, lone nights? 
Stay, there’s a gleam of winter wheat 
Far on the hill j down in the woods 
A very heaven of stillness broods ; 
And through the mellow sun’s noon heat, 
Lo, tender pulses round thee beat, 
O late and sweet 1 
Mary Tawn-ley. 
23* 
