_The Poplar_


There is a great tree in Sussex, whose cloud of thin foliage
floats high in the summer air. The thrush sings in it, and
blackbirds, who fill the late, decorative sunshine with a
shimmer of golden sound. There the nightingale finds her green
cloister; and on those branches sometimes, like a great fruit,
hangs the lemon-coloured Moon. In the glare of August, when all
the world is faint with heat, there is always a breeze in those
cool recesses, always a noise, like the noise of water, among
its lightly hung leaves.

But the owner of this Tree lives in London, reading books.




_On the Doorstep_


I rang the bell as of old; as of old I gazed at the great
shining Door and waited. But, alas! that flutter and beat of the
wild heart, that delicious doorstep Terror--it was gone; and
with it dear, fantastic, panic-stricken Youth had rung the bell,
flitted round the corner and vanished for ever.