Now the trees had no insides--how funny! Laughed the boy with the little bare toes. And he put in his hand to find some money Or honey--yes, that would be best--oh, best! But what do you think he found, found, found? Why, six little eggs all round, round, round, And a mother-bird on the nest, Oh, yes! The mother-bird on her nest. He laughed, “Ha! ha!” and he laughed, “He! he!” The boy with the little bare toes. But the little mother-bird got up from her place And flew right into his face, ho! ho! And pecked him on the nose, “Oh! oh!” Yes, pecked him right on the nose. “Boo! Boo!” Cried the boy with the little bare toes. THE WIND IN TOWN TREES What is it says the breeze In London streets to-day Unto the troubled trees Whose shadows strew the way, Whose leaves are all a-flutter? “You are wild!” the rascal cries. The green tree beats its wings And fills the air with sighs. “Wild! Wild!” the rascal sings. “But your feet are in the gutter!” Men pass beneath the trees Walking the pavement grey, They hear the whisperings tease And at the word he utters Their hearts are green and gay. Then like the gay, green trees, They beat proud wings to fly, But, like the fluttering trees, Their footprints mark the gutters Until the beggars die. FORM (A STUDY) Flower-like and shy, You stand, sweet mortal, at the river’s brim: With what unconscious grace Your limbs to some strange law surrendering Which lifts you clear of our humanity! Now would I sacrifice Your breathing, warmth, and all the strange romance Of living, to a moment. Ere you break The greater thing than you, I would my eyes Were basilisk to turn you into stone. So should you be the world’s inheritance. And souls of unborn men should draw their breath From mortal you, immortalised in Death. VILLANELLE So is thy music unto me, As the bright moon which tides obey, As the white moon upon the sea. And like a wind that scatters free The petals of an April day, So is thy music unto me. It falleth light and quietly And sweet as summer’s petals--nay, As the white moon upon the sea. As moonlight falling silvery On waves of wild and surging grey, So is thy music unto me. As o’er each white and ebon key I watch thy silver fingers play, As the white moon upon the sea, On headlands of eternity My soul is hurled, and dashed in spray! So is thy music unto me As the bright moon which tides obey, As the white moon upon the sea. KOSSOVO DAY