I.

She sang, and I heard the singing,

Far out of the wretched past,

Of meadow-larks in the meadow,

In a breathing of the blast.

Cold through the clouds of sunset

The thin red sunlight shone,

Staining the gloom of the woodland

Where I walked and dreamed alone;

And glinting with chilly splendor

The meadow under the hill,

Where the lingering larks were lurking

In the sere grass hid and still.

Out they burst with their singing,

Their singing so loud and gay;

They made in the heart of October

A sudden ghastly May,

That faded and ceased with their singing.

The thin red sunlight paled,

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And through the boughs above me

The wind of evening wailed;––

Wailed, and the light of evening

Out of the heaven died;

And from the marsh by the river

The lonesome killdee cried.

II.

The song is done, but a phantom

Of music haunts the chords,

That thrill with its subtile presence,

And grieve for the dying words.

And in the years that are perished,

Far back in the wretched past,

I see on the May-green meadows

The white snow falling fast;––

Falling, and falling, and falling,

As still and cold as death,

On the bloom of the odorous orchard,

On the small, meek flowers beneath;

On the roofs of the village-houses,

On the long, silent street,

Where its plumes are soiled and broken

Under the passing feet;

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On the green crest of the woodland,

On the cornfields far apart;

On the cowering birds in the gable,

And on my desolate heart.