  IN cloudy quiet of the day, While thrush and robin perched mute on spray, A spectre by the window sat, Brooding thereat. He marked the greenness of the Spring, Daffodil blowing, bird a-wing— Yet dark the house the years had made Within that Shade. Blinded the rooms wherein no foot falls. Faded the portraits on the walls. Reverberating, shakes the air A river there. Coursing in flood, its infinite roars; From pit to pit its water pours; And he, with countenance unmoved, Hears cry:—'Beloved, 'Oh, ere the day be utterly spent, Return, return, from banishment. The night thick-gathers. Weep a prayer For the true and fair.'
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