A gurly breeze swept from the pool
    The Autumn peace so blue and cool,
    Which all day long had dreamed thereon
    Of men and things aforetime gone,
    Their vanished joy, their ended dule: 
    So glooms the sea, so sounds her brool,
    As from the East at eve comes on
        A gurly breeze.

    Sense yields to Fancy ’neath whose rule
    This inland scene is quickly full
    Of ocean moods wherein I con
    As in a picture; quickly gone. 
    To what sweet use the mind may school
        A gurly breeze!

SONNETS

I.

    A Hamadryad Dies.

    Low mourned the Oread round the Arcadian hills;
    The Naiad murmured and the Dryad moaned;
    The meadow-maiden left her daffodils
    To join the Hamadryades who groaned
    Over a sister newly fallen dead. 
    That Life might perish out of Arcady
    From immemorial times was never said;
    Yet here one lay dead by her dead oak-tree. 
    “Who made our Hamadryad cold and mute?”
    The others cried in sorrow and in wonder. 
    “I,” answered Death, close by in ashen suit;
    “Yet fear not me for this, nor start asunder;
    Arcadian life shall keep its ancient zest
    Though I be here.  My name?—­is it not Rest?”

II.

    "Et in Arcadia ego ..."

    “What traveller soever wander here
    In quest of peace and what is best of pleasure,
    Let not his hope be overcast and drear
    Because I, Death, am here to fix the measure
    Of life, even in blameless Arcady. 
    Bay, laurel, myrtle, ivy never sere,
    And fields flower-decorated all the year,
    And streams that carry secrets to the sea,
    And hills that hold back something evermore
    Though wild their speech with clouds in thunder-roar,—­
    Yea, every sylvan sight and peaceful tone
    Are thine to give thy days their purer zest. 
    Let not the legend grieve thee on this stone. 
    I Death am here.  What then?  My name is Rest.”

III.

    Despairless!  Hopeless!  Quietly I wait
    On these unpeopled tracks the happy close
    Of Day, whose advent rang with noise elate,
    Whose later stage was quick with mirthful shows
    And clasping loves, with hate and hearty blows,
    And dreams of coming gifts withheld by Fate
    From morrow unto morrow, till her great
    Dread eyes ’gan tell of other gifts than those,
    And her advancing wings gloomed like a pall;
    Her speech foretelling joy became a dirge
    As piteous as pitiless; and all
    My company had passed beyond the verge
    And lost me ere Fate raised her blinding wings.... 
    Hark! through the dusk a bird “at heaven’s gate sings.”