Ferns of all feather,
Mosses and heather.
Yours be the care!

"SUCH A STARVED BANK OF MOSS"

Such a starved bank of moss
Till, that May-morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!

Sky--what a scowl of cloud 5
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud:
Splendid, a star!

World--how it walled about
Life with disgrace 10
Till God's own smile came out:
That was thy face!

EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC

What a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, 5
While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting
This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, 10
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly 15
Quite as singing--I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round, 20
--Judges able, I should mention,
To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss--such ears
Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly, 25
Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile, "In vain one tries
Picking faults out; take the prize!" 30

When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
Thank you! Well, sir--who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?--it happed 35
One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket
(What "cicada"? Pooh!)
--Some mad thing that left its thicket
For mere love of music--flew 40
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (ah, joy!) our singer
For his truant str