Some tell me "_Life is a weariful thing, That Sorrow remains, while joy takes wing._" But Sorrow and I already have met: His face is wan and his lips are set; He cometh and goeth on silent feet, Yet between his visits are moments sweet, Moments that come like a blackbird's dart, When Happiness holds me close to his heart; When I sense the rapture of swinging skies And know the thrill of the spring's surprise, As I lie on the mothering Earth's deep breast And clasp my tremulous bosom, lest Some unknown loveliness I might miss, Or forgetful be of the West Wind's kiss. Like the blackbird's notes in the early hours Which fall like a peal of silver flowers, Joy rings his bells in my waiting ears, And Sorrow departs to his silent meres. "_And if he returns?_"--my soul will sing Remembering Joy who has taken wing! RILSTONE FELL. A THRUSH'S SONG (To My First Love, Daddy) A thrush's call Has chanced to fall Into my heart Where dwell apart Dear memories Of summer skies, Of heartsome days, Of flower-fair ways, Of kisses shy With people high. What did I ken Of lovers then, Of lover-laws, Of lover-saws? The sweet, sweet earth Was giving birth To lovely things With songs and wings; And yonder thrush On yonder bush Brings home to me The little years of memory. A FEBRUARY DAY (_There is a country saying that spring has not come until you can set your foot on seven daisies at once_) "_O! How do you know When spring has come? Still falls the snow And the birds are dumb._" The grass will wear A greener tone, The thrush will dare To carol alone. The silver rain Will warmly fall, The woods will gain The blackbird's call. But the way to tell, And the only way, Is to find a dell Where the breezes play, And seek and seek Where the daisy-bloom Shows white and meek Like a baby moon. And when your foot treads With tender fear On seven white heads,-- Then spring is here. COXWOLD. LAUS DEO (For My Little God-son) God Darling! Listen to my song, The one I sing the whole day long, Of thanks to Thee for every good, Whether at home, in field, or wood. I thank Thee for the lovely spring, And for Thy little birds that sing; I thank Thee for the summer's sun, When 'mong the roses I can run. I thank Thee for the sickle time, When corn is ripe, and apples prime. I thank Thee for the deep white snow, When I tobogganing can go. I thank Thee for the bright sweet day, For hours of love and work and play; I thank Thee for the deep blue night When I and flower-buds fold up tight. NIDDERDALE. "PAST-TEN-O'CLOCK-LAND" "_It was Moonlight Land and Past-ten-o'clock Land and we were in it and of it._"--KENNETH GRAHAM.