Helen Gray Cone

The Strayed Singer

 (MATTHEW ARNOLD)

  He wandered from us long, oh, long ago,
  Rare singer, with the note unsatisfied;
  Into what charmèd wood, what shade star-eyed
  With the wind's April darlings, none may know.
  We lost him. Songless, one with seed to sow,
  Keen-smiling toiler, came in place, and plied
  His strength in furrowed field till eventide,
  And passed to slumber when the sun was low.

  But now,—as though Death spoke some mystic word
  Solving a spell,—present to thought appears
  The morn's estray, not him we saw but late;
  And on his lips the strain that once we heard,
  And in his hand, cool as with Springtime's tears,
  The melancholy wood-flowers delicate.