November, 1903.




LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES

Long, long, long the trail
Through the brooding forest-gloom,
Down the shadowy, lonely vale
Into silence, like a room
Where the light of life has fled,
And the jealous curtains close
Round the passionless repose
Of the silent dead.

Plod, plod, plod away,
Step by step in mouldering moss;
Thick branches bar the day
Over languid streams that cross
Softly, slowly, with a sound
Like a smothered weeping,
In their aimless creeping
Through enchanted ground.

"Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"
Whispers through the woodland deep:
"Come to me and be at rest;
I am slumber, I am sleep."
Then the weary feet would fail,