78 WIND-HARP SONGS.

But I write

As one might

In prophecy

Unsought,

And I think, it may be,

As bards of minstrelsy

Improvise.

Arise,

O my soul,

Come out !

There is music in thy brain

Like the rain;

Like the laugh

And the sip

Of the lip

Of the wave

On the sand.

It is faint, like the mist,

And it turns

Like the wind that we list,

And it burns

Like the flush of the flame in the womb

Of the time when the daytime is not.

I sat on the ground

To-day,

With a hound;

And he was the brother of me.

Exceedingly

Beautiful were his eyes;

Gentle and merry and brown.

Ah it was sweet to be down

On a level with him and all things there

In the grass.