WITH caws and chirrupings, the woods

In this thin sun rejoice.

The Psalm seems but the little kirk

That sings with its own voice.

The cloud-rifts share their amber light

With the surface of the mere —

I think the very stones are glad

To feel each other near.

Once more my whole heart leaps and swells

And gushes o’er with glee;

The fingers of the sun and shade

Touch music stops in me.

Now fancy paints that bygone day

When you were here, my fair —

T............