The Onewai.

Down in the onewai, bough-red,
Go, heart-tired, and the year dead,
Where the hills are old
With bird sighs,
And in the quiet, amaranthine glow,
Innumerable buds burst, break and
blow,
Sobbing down time until
Time sobs and dies.
With all your songs unsung, go down
Undulating wood-paths on the brack-
ened, brown,
Old, mellowy ways
Of green sweet clover,
To the onewai lying where high trees
loom,
Blurred against the dim-remoted gloom
Of far waters crashing,
And the year creeps over.
And fair it seems to sleep, and never
wake,
Heart star-ful, hidden in the brake,
A world away;
Too sweet and high
The bird-voice, mocking, shrills and
fades.
Cool-lipped oblivion falls in hourless
shades
On all things elemental,
Trees and earth and sky.

—Mary R. Greig.