Page:A masque of poets 1878.djvu/143

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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.