And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that, alas! 
Fain would halt the dancing feet of those careless ones who pass
Down a sweet and primrose path, through the ribbons of the grass.

Silver-clock!  O Silver-clock!  It was only yesterday
Dandelions flecked the field, starry bright, and gold and gay;
You are but the ghost of one—­little globe of silver-grey!

Tell me—­tell me of the hour—­for there is so much to do! 
Is it early?  Is it late?  Fairy clock! 0 tell me true,
As I blow you down the wind, out upon a road of blue.

THE SLUMBER ANGEL

When day is ended, and grey twilight flies
  On silent wings across the tired land,
The slumber angel cometh from the skies—­
The slumber angel of the peaceful eyes,
  And with the scarlet poppies in his hand.

His robes are dappled like the moonlit seas,
  His hair in waves of silver floats afar;
He weareth lotus-bloom and sweet heartsease,
With tassels of the rustling green fir trees,
  As down the dusk he steps from star to star.

Above the world he swings his curfew bell,
  And sleep falls soft on golden heads and white;
The daisies curl their leaves beneath his spell,
The prisoner who wearies in his cell
  Forgets awhile, and dreams throughout the night.

* * * * *

Even so, in peace, comes that great Lord of rest
  Who crowneth men with amaranthine flowers;
Who telleth them the truths they have but guessed,
Who giveth them the things they love the best,
  Beyond this restless, rocking world of ours.

THE LONELY ROAD

We used to fear the lonely road
  That twisted round the hill;
It dipped down to the river-way,
  And passed the haunted mill,
And then crept on, until it reached
  The churchyard, green and still.

No pipers ever took that road,
  No gipsies, brown and gay;
No shepherds with their gentle flocks,
  No loads of scented hay;
No market-waggons jingled by
  On any Saturday.

The dog-wood there flung wide its stars,
  In April, silvery sweet;
The squirrels crossed that path all day
  On tiny flying feet;
The wild, brown rabbits knew each turn,
  Each shadowy safe retreat.

And there the golden-belted bee
  Sang his sweet summer song,
The crickets chirped there to the moon
  With steady note and strong;
Till cold and silence wrapped them round
  When autumn nights grew long.

But, oh! they brought the lonely dead
  Along that quiet way,
With strange procession, dark and slow,
  On sunny days and grey;
We used to watch them, wonder-eyed,
  Nor care again to play.

And we forgot each merry jest;
  The birds on bush and tree
Silenced the song within their throats
  And with us watched to see,
The soft, slow passing out of sight
  Of that dark mystery.