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MISTS.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

A DAY of mists, - all blank and bare

Is the beyond, the everywhere,

Afar and nigh;

Save one small round of earth and air,

Whose centre - I.

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But into this small plot of ground

Pours a whole city-full of sound,

And to the brim

Hath filled and overflowed its round.

With life's great hymn.

This wealth of sound I bear with me,

And am the centre of a sea,

Where'er I go, -

Much wider than my need can be

Sets to and fro.

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