Sad is thy voice as the thin cry of the plover
On the ridged loam
All the chill ghostly night: but when ’tis over
Thou shalt hie home.
Cease thou to roam
When the willow wavers with a whispered warning
That on the foam
Of his tossed streams doth shine the silver morning;
Then rest, rover,
And stay, feet.
The woe is over,
The day flies fleet;
The lands and the waters,
The dark and the morn
Full fairly do meet;
Heaven’s sons and daughters
Themselves do adorn
To wander through the flowery woods, and the sloped fields of corn.
1917.