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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
304
A JULY DAY.
To-day the sun has steadfast been and clear;
No wind has marred the spell of hushful heat,
But with the twilight comes a rush and beat
Of ghost-like wings; the sky turns gray and drear,
The trees are stricken with a sudden fear.
O wind forlorn, that sayest nothing sweet,
With what foreboding message dost thou greet
The dearest month but one of all the year?
No wind has marred the spell of hushful heat,
But with the twilight comes a rush and beat
Of ghost-like wings; the sky turns gray and drear,
The trees are stricken with a sudden fear.
O wind forlorn, that sayest nothing sweet,
With what foreboding message dost thou greet
The dearest month but one of all the year?
Ah, now it seems I catch the moan of seas
Whose boundaries are pale regions of dismay,
Where sad-eyed people wander without ease;
I see in thought that lamentable array,
And surely hear about the dying day
Recorded dooms and mournful prophecies.
Whose boundaries are pale regions of dismay,
Where sad-eyed people wander without ease;
I see in thought that lamentable array,
And surely hear about the dying day
Recorded dooms and mournful prophecies.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |