Then changed is their measure to tone upon tone,
And seldom it is that one sound comes alone,
For they ring out their peals in a mingled throng,
And the breezes waft the loud ding-dong along.
When the echo has reached me in this lone vale,
I am straightway a hero in coat of mail,
I tug at my belt and I march on my post,
And feel myself more than a match for a host.
I am on the alert for some wonderful Thing
Which somewhere's a-taking place;
'T is perchance the salute which our planet doth ring
When it meeteth another in space.
Feb. 25.
THE SHRIKE
Hark! hark! from out the thickest fog
Warbles with might and main
The fearless shrike, as all agog
To find in fog his gain.
His steady sails he never furls
At any time o' year,
And, perchèd now on Winter's curls,
He whistles in his ear.[1]
THE POET
March 3. He must be something more than natural,—even supernatural. Nature will not speak through but along with him. His voice will not proceed from her
- ↑ [Excursions, p. 109; Riv. 134.]
