One harvest in thy field

Homeward brought the oxen strong;

A second crop thine acres yield,

Which I gather in a song.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

L'ENVOI

HOLD within my hand a lute,

A lute that hath not many strings.
A little bird above it sings,

And singing soars and claps its wings;

Sing, little bird; when thou art mute,
The music dies within my lute.

Sing on, thou little bird, until
I hear a voice expected long,

That bids an after-silence fill

The space that once was filled with song.
Then fold thy wings upon my breast,
Upon my heart, and give it rest.

DORA GREENWELL.

BOOK II.

Sonnets.