In every solemn tree the wind
Has rung a little lonesome bell,
As sweet and clear, as cool and kind
As my voice bidding you farewell.
This is an hour that gods have loved
To snatch with bare, bright hands and hold.
Mine, with a gesture, grey and gloved,
Dismiss it from me in the cold.
Closely as some dark-shuttered house
I keep my light. How should you know,
That, as you turn beneath brown boughs,
My heart is breaking in the snow?
_Herbert S. Gorman_
Herbert S. Gorman was born at Springfield, Massachusetts, January 1,
1893. After attending Technical High School he became an actor for
two seasons, deserting the stage for the newspaper. He became
assistant literary and dramatic editor of the Springfield Union,
reporter on the New York _Sun_ and reviewer for the New York _Post_,
_The Freeman_ and other journals.
His first book, _The Fool of Love_ (1920), shows, above an
indebtedness to E. A. Robinson, a keen talent and fresh personality.