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THE WIND AT THE DOOR

As daylight darken'd on the dewless grass,

There still, with no one come by me,

To stay awhile at home by me,

Within the house, now dumb by me,

I sat me still as eveningtide did pass.

And there a windblast shook the rattling door,

And seem'd, as wind did moan without,

As if my love alone without,

And standing on the stone without,

Had there come back with happiness once more.

I went to door, and out from trees, above

My head, upon the blast by me,

Sweet blossoms there were cast by me,

As if my love had pass'd by me,

And flung them down, a token of her love.

Sweet blossoms of the tree where now I mourn,

I thought, if you did blow for her,

For apples that should grow for her,

And fall red-ripe below for her,

Oh! then how happy I should see you kern.

But no. Too soon my fond illusion broke,

No comely soul in white like her,
No fair one, tripping light, like her,

No wife of comely height like her,

Went by, but all my grief again awoke.

BY THE MILL IN SPRING

WITH wind to blow, and streams to flow,

To flow along the gravel stone,

The waves were bright, the cliffs were white, Were white before the evening sun,

Where shaken sedge would softly sigh,

As we, with windblown locks, went by.

As lambs would swing their tails, and spring; And spring about the ground chalk white; The smoke was blue, above the yew;

The yew beside your house in sight;

And wind would sing with sullen sound,
Against the tree beside the mound;

Where down at mill, the wheel was still,

Was still, and dripp'd with glitt'ring tears,
With dusty poll, up lane would stroll,
The miller's man with mill-stunn'd ears;
While weakly-wailing wind would swim,

By ground with ivied elm-trees dim.

My work and way may fail or fay,
Or fay as days may freeze or glow,

I'll try to bear my toil or care,

Or care, with either friend or foe,

If, after all, the evening tide

May bring me peace, where I abide.

HAPPY TIMES

How smoothly then did run my happy days,
When things to charm my mind and sight were nigh;

The glitt'ring brook, that wander'd round my home, With rock-shot foam, downfalling white, was nigh ;

And glossy-wingèd rooks, above the grove,
Off-sweeping round their tree, in flight, were nigh.

And daws about the castle's ruggèd walls,

And ivy-hooded tower's height, were nigh.

A bower outhollow'd in a hedge of yew,

Would yield me shelter'd rest, when night was nigh,

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