Theodore Harding Rand

I. A death-like dew was falling On the herbs and the grassy ground;

Silent, with hands crost meekly on his breast, Long time, with keen and meditative eye, Stood the old painter of Siena by

"Only a penny, Sir!" A child held to my view A bunch of "glory-roses," red

A mossy footfall in this wood A peal of thunder were, Or autumn tempest-shriek, compared

O soul, that art essential change, Bickering beams, a flutter strange, Lightning of thought and gust of passion,

O come, unpack the heart of care! Kingcups sun the meadows o'er, The yellowbugle sudden blows

I. Fair spirit of the plaining sea, Thou heard'st Apollo's lyre! -

Earth's manifold noises break Overhead, in the calm, In unison full, and wake

Shy bird of the silver arrows of song, That cleave our Northern air so clear, Thy notes prolong, prolong,

The lithe wind races and sings Over the grasses and wheat - See the emerald floor as it springs

"Time in advance behind him hides his wings." - YOUNG. As comes amain the glossy flying raven, That with unwavering wing, breast on the view,

I would enshrine in silvern song The charm that bore our souls along, As in the sun-flushed days of summer