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OCTOBER SUNDAY.
137
Now the wind has caught the strain
And drops the leaves, and listens fain:
For the souls a sweet wind borrow
To intone of earth's to-morrow.
When the road is still I hear,
Like crushed grapes, the notes of cheer;
When from these million tongues of leaves
The wind dead Pentecost receives,
I wait, the organ builds the while;
'Twixt me and the eternal smile
A scurry flits: but, tone-piers sinking,
Psalmward across I go unshrinking.
