On a Fly-Leaf of Father Tabb's 'Lyrics'

No booming cataracts of song
Entrancing thrilled thy little lyre,
Nor Alpine heights where visions throng,
Full of a poet’s wild desire;
But common things across the mead
Gave minstrel wisdom to thy heart;
Now fronded fern and elfin seed
Wear well the halo of thine art:
As if dead leaves on beechen trees,
So pitiful ’neath wintry skies,
Should feel this wind an Easter breeze
And rise a June of butterflies.