EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY

bird pondered, silent quite, "Why doth my piping change his plight? Why stands he now, That luckless, luckless, roaming wight?" TO THE GLACIER At noontide hour, when first, Into the mountains Summer treads, Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary, Then too he speaks, Yet we can only see his speech. His breath is panting, like the sick man's breath On fevered couch. The glacier and the fir tree and the spring Answer his call —Yet we their answer only see. For faster from the rock leaps down The torrent stream, as though to greet, And stands, like a white column trembling, All yearning there. And darker yet and truer looks the fir-tree Than e'er