EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY

ever, And will not go: But like to veils he blows his words From out his lips, His cruel words: "My greeting's parting, My coming going, In youth I die." All round they hearken And scarcely breathe (No songster sings), And shuddering run Like gleaming ray Over the mountain; All round they ponder,— Nor speak— Twas at the noon, At noontide hour, when first Into the mountains Summer treads, Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary. AUTUMN³¹ 'Tis