AT THE MILL.

Swallows, skimming o’er the shallows,
Where, above the reeds and mallows,
May-flies hover light,
As ye course o’er flood and lea,
Twitter of my love to me—
Cometh he to-night?
Insect-mazes, softly droning
O’er the mill-stream’s fitful moaning,
In your wayward flight,
Murmur o’er the bridge’s cope
Lullabies to dreaming Hope—
Cometh he to-night?
Weave your flaming splendours o’er me,
Evening clouds that float before me,
Rosy, gold, and white;
Flood my soul with pearly rays,
Harbingers of halcyon days—
Cometh he to-night?
Flowers that lade the zephyr’s fleetness
With the burden of your sweetness,
Cheer me, calm and bright.
Sweet as you my thoughts shall spring,
When his soft-tongued whispering
Breathes o’er me to-night.
Fickle he as swallow’s glancing;
Wavering as the May-fly’s dancing
In the waning light!
Flimsy as the clouds above,
Frail as petals all his love!
Where is he to-night?
He is here! my homebound swallow;
True to me as May-flies follow
Streamlets to alight.
Fair as skies in sunset hours,
Sweeter far than honeyed flowers,
Comes my love to-night!
F. H. Wood.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

All rights reserved.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Near Weston, one of the seats of the Earl of Bradford, in Shropshire, there is a field locally called the ‘Falfalarie Field,’ which people annually visit for the sake of the fritillary, which abounds there, as it does in Christ Church Meadows, Oxford.