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A NORTHERN MÆNAD
Yet, with low moss
Heavenly dews do house, bright sunbeams
Swim i’ the bark, yea, winds the faded
Bracken woo. But me—Ah, Death, Death,
In my hand even thine lies loose!
Ah, but once!—
The Spring dawn . . . the touch . . . the whisper . . .
Oh, the dread! and tears a many,
Blinding—till the leafy branches
Quiver’d yet, but thou wast flown!
Ah, once more!
The blue summer-night, . . . the woodward
Chamber singing to the passing
Of thy wing! . . . I burst the dream-webs,
Up I sprang! . . . But thou wast flown!
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