Songs, Merry and Sad by John Charles McNeill
page 63 of 71 (88%)
page 63 of 71 (88%)
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From pacing, pacing without hope or quest
He leaned against his window-bars to rest And smelt the breeze that crept up from the west. It came with sundown noises from the moors, Of milking time and loud-voiced rural chores, Of lumbering wagons and of closing doors. He caught a whiff of furrowed upland sweet, And certain scents stole up across the street That told him fireflies winked among the wheat. Over the dusk hill woke a new moon's light, Shadowed the woods and made the waters white, And watched above the quiet tents of night. Alas, that the old Mother should not know How ached his heart to be entreated so, Who heard her calling and who could not go! Sonnet To-day was but a dead day in my hands. Hour by hour did nothing more than pass, Mere idle winds above the faded grass. |
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