_A Year Song._

Sighing above, Rustling below, Thorough the woods The winds go. Beneath, dead crowds; Above, life bare; And the besom tempest Sweeps the air: Heart, leave thy woe: Let the dead things go.

Through the brown Gold doth push; Misty green Veils the bush. Here a twitter, There a croak! They are coming-- The spring-folk! Heart, be not numb; Let the live things come.

Through the beech The winds go, With gentle speech, Long and slow. The grass is fine, And soft to lie in: The sun doth shine The blue sky in: Heart, be alive; Let the new things thrive.

Round again! Here art thou, A rimy fruit On a bare bough! Winter comes, Winter and snow; And a weary sighing To fall and go! Heart, thy hour shall be; Thy dead will comfort thee.

SONG.

Why do the houses stand When they that built them are gone; When remaineth even of one That lived there and loved and planned Not a face, not an eye, not a hand, Only here and there a bone? Why do the houses stand When they who built them are gone?

Oft in the moonlighted land When the day is overblown, With happy memorial moan Sweet ghosts in a loving band Roam through the houses that stand-- For the builders are not gone.