Page:Poems Trask.djvu/105

I cross the sill, and sit me down
Upon the doorstep bare and brown;
I call aloud,—a gentle word,—
Name of a sweet-voiced singing-bird:
Where dwells she now? What regions hold
Her, with her hair of living gold?

I call, and listen; empty sounds,
From empty halls and empty grounds,
Grate on the air, and fright the ears
Like tones the pale death-watcher hears,
And the red robin, with a cry,
Flies startled up against the sky.

Three tombstones out 'neath yonder tree,—
One coral grave deep in the sea,—
A nameless mound in Indian lands!
Oh, sleep of heart! oh, rest of hands!
Oh, winter's rest, where Death is king,
Waiting the resurrection Spring!

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A MEMORY OF WINTER.

All day, in flakes of saintly white,
  The snow fell down;
Wrapping in ermine folds the height
  Above the town;
Hanging each patient hemlock-tree
  With bridal veils;