[from Collected Works, T.E.Brown]


WHEN all the sky is pure
My soul takes flight,
Serene and sure,
Upward—till at the height
She weighs her wings,
And sings.

But when the heaven is black,
And west-winds sigh,
Beat back, beat back,
She has no strength to try
The drifting rain

So cheaply baffled ! see!
The field is bare—
Behold a tree—
Is’t not enough ? Sit there,
Thou foolish thing,
And sing!


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