POETRY.
CONSTABLE'S COUNTRY.
DEAR John, most friendly poet of the field, I have been walking at your heels to-day; There was no tree that had not seen you pass, No field but knew your shadow on the grass, Or gate where you had dreamed no hour away. Only your self, dear John, was not revealed.
The mellow plastered gables which you knew Still lean across the millpond: the full stream Winds through the willows, and along the deep And silent meadows still sublimely sleep The ash trees which you loved, still sway and gleam Tall poplars ranked against the steady blue.
We stood awaiting you, your vale and I, And suddenly you came—not in the guise Of long dismantled flesh, but for the space Of a stayed breath your spirit filled the place, And seen and seeing through its patient eyes, Knew and were known in that brief ecstasy.
C. T.
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