And a weight will press you down.

Hungry-hearted, you will see
Only the thin shadows fall
From yon bleak-topped poplar-tree,--
Icy fingers on the wall.
You will watch them come and go,
Telling o'er your count of woe.

--Nay, now, hear me, how I prate!
I, a foolish monk, and old,
Maundering o'er a life and fate
To me unknown, by you untold!
Yet I know you're like to weep
Soon, so, Brother, this night sleep.



IMPULSE.


A hollow on the verge of May.
Thick strewn with drift of leaves. Beneath
The densest drift a thrusting sheath
Of sharp green striving toward the day!
I mused--"So dull Obstruction sets
A bar to even violets,
When these would go their nobler way!"

My feet again, some days gone by.