 | Forest Notes |  |
12
UNDERNOTES
We lingered, strolling in the summer's prime,
Under the beech-roof of the greenwood lane;
And listened to the lute-strings of the rain
Thrummed to the mournful measures of old time.
Under the beech-roof of the greenwood lane;
And listened to the lute-strings of the rain
Thrummed to the mournful measures of old time.
“Nature is grave,” he said; “her harp sublime
Is tuned to keynotes of remembered pain;
The summer woods are sweet, but yet the strain
Of unforgotten winters threads the chime.”
Is tuned to keynotes of remembered pain;
The summer woods are sweet, but yet the strain
Of unforgotten winters threads the chime.”
“Sweetheart,” I said, “her moods are manifold,
And sad and bright and weird and bitter-sweet.
Her angel trump is all of sunset gold;
Her cythera with morning-rays is strung;
Her voice is jocund with the noonday heat,
And every silence is a song unsung.”
And sad and bright and weird and bitter-sweet.
Her angel trump is all of sunset gold;
13
Her voice is jocund with the noonday heat,
And every silence is a song unsung.”
A.
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