Helena Coleman
They would climb the waves together, Riding buoyant as a feather
Or a bird that slants a wet wing to the spray; But the echoing laughter dies, Lone and far the seagull cries, And the little playmate lies, Idly rocking, idly rocking
In the bay.
Son o mine, O little son,
Has the race indeed been run- Have the storm-clouds turned the blue and gold to grey?
God be praised who gave you grace,
Strength of heart and will to face
Wilder winds upon the death-fields far away!
God be praised for lads like you,
And for hearts that measure true,
Though we turn our brimming eyes
To your little brown canoe
By the reedy shore that lies
All the empty summer through,
Idly rocking, idly rocking In the bav !
��w
(A.L.T.)
IE know by many a tender token
When Indian-summer days have come, By rustling leaves in branches oaken And by the cricket s sleepy hum.
By aspen leaves no longer shaken, And by the river s silvered thread,
The oriole s swinging cup forsaken, Emptied of music overhead.
By long slant lines on field and fallow, By mellowing portals of the wood,
By silences that seem to hallow Inviting us to solitude. .
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