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George Cotterell

AN AUTUMN FLITTING

My roof is hardly picturesque.

It lacks the pleasant reddish brown
Of the tiled house-tops out of town,
And cannot even hope to match
The modest beauty of the thatch :
Nor is it Gothic or grotesque -
No gable breaks, with quaint design,
Its hard monotony of line,
And not a gargoyle on the spout
Brings any latent beauty out:
Its only charm- I hold it high-
Is just its nearness to the sky.

But yet it looks o'er field and tree,
And in the air

One breathes up there

A faint, fresh whiff suggests the sea.
And that is why, this afternoon,
The topmost slates above the leads
Were thick with little bobbing heads,
And frisking tails, and wings that soon
Shall spread, ah me!

For lands where summer lingers fair,
Far otherwhere.

I heard a muttering,

Saw a fluttering,

Pointed wings went skimming past,
White breasts shimmered by as fast,

Wheel and bound and spurt and spring -
All the air seemed all on wing.

Then, like dropping clouds of leaves,
Down they settled on the eaves
All the swallows of the region,
In a number almost legion
Frisked about, but did not stop
Till they reached the ridge atop.

Then what chirping, what commotion !
What they said I have no notion,
But one cannot err in stating
There was very much debating.
First a small loquacious swallow
Seemed to move a resolution;
And another seemed to follow,
Seconding the subject-matter
With a trick of elocution.
After that the chirp and chatter
Boded some more serious end, meant

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As the clatter reached my ears,
Now it sounded like "hear, hears
But again a note of faction,
With a clash of beaks in action,
Gave an aspect to the scene
Not exactly quite serene.
Fretful clusters flew away,
All too much incensed to stay;
Wheeled about, then took a tack,
Halted and came darting back.
Others, eager to be heard,
Perched upon the chimney-top,
Chirped, as they would never stop,
Loud and fluent every bird.

But the turmoil passed away :
How it happened I can't say,
All I know is, there was peace.
Whether some more thoughtful bird
Said the quarrelling was absurd,
And implored that it should cease;
Whether what appeared contention
Was a difference not worth mention,
Just some mere exchange of words
Not uncommon among birds,
I have only my own notion,
You may make a nearer guess;
All at once the noise was over,
Not a bird was now a rover,

Some one seemed to put the motion,
And the little heads bobbed "Yes."

Oh, that sudden resolution,

So unanimously carried!

;

Would they'd longer talked and tarried,
With their fiery elocution!
What it bodes I cannot doubt;
They were planning when to go,
And they have settled it, I know;
Some chill morning, when the sun
Does not venture to shine out,
I shall miss them - overnight
They will all have taken flight,
And the summer will be gone.

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'Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark
Of china that's ancient and blue;
Unchipp'd, all the centuries through
It has pass'd, since the chime of it rang,
And they fashion'd it, figure and hue,
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

These dragons (their tails, you remark,
Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),—
When Noah came out of the ark,
Did these lie in wait for his crew?
They snorted, they snapp'd, and they slew,
They were mighty of fin and of fang,
And their portraits Celestials drew
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

Here's a pot with a cot in a park,
In a park where the peach-blossoms blew,
Where the lovers eloped in the dark,
Lived, died, and were changed into two
Bright birds that eternally flew

Through the boughs of the may, as they

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And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
Stole forth among the branches gray;
About the coming of the light,

They fled like ghosts before the day! I know not if the forest green

Still girdles round that castle gray; I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day; Above my Love the grass is green, My heart is colder than the clay!

THE ODYSSEY

As one that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Eæan isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine,
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again,
So gladly, from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the
free

Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,

And, through the music of the languid hours,

They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

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TEARS for my lady dead,
Heliodore!

Salt tears and ill to shed
Over and o'er.
Tears for my lady dead,
Sighs do we send,
Long love remembered,
Mistress and friend.
Sad are the songs we sing,
Tears that we shed,
Empty the gifts we bring,
Gifts to the dead.

Go tears, and go lament!
Fare from her tomb,
Wend where my lady went,
Down through the gloom.
Ah, for my flower, my love,
Hades hath taken!
Ah for the dust above,

Scattered and shaken!
Mother of all things born,
Earth, in thy breast

Lull her that all men mourn, Gently to rest!

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