 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
307
III.
I walked in Summer through green, pleasant ways,
And heard a soft wind singing as I went,
And casual songs of birds; sweet was the scent
Of wild things prospering in a sheltered place;
But suddenly chill rain-drops smote my face,
And, like the sad, melodious discontent
That wakens in the wind-played instrument,
The low wind sighed, recalling other days.
And heard a soft wind singing as I went,
And casual songs of birds; sweet was the scent
Of wild things prospering in a sheltered place;
But suddenly chill rain-drops smote my face,
And, like the sad, melodious discontent
That wakens in the wind-played instrument,
The low wind sighed, recalling other days.
I passed into a churchyard filled with dead;
And all the graves, it seemed, had separate tongues,
For over each a bird poised, wings outspread,
And sang sad things of those deaf, eyeless throngs:
“What may this mean?” I cried, and one there said,
“These be thy griefs of old, and these thy songs.”
And all the graves, it seemed, had separate tongues,
For over each a bird poised, wings outspread,
And sang sad things of those deaf, eyeless throngs:
“What may this mean?” I cried, and one there said,
“These be thy griefs of old, and these thy songs.”
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |