The Falling Leaves-G. D. Roberts (1860-1943)

Lightly He blows, and at His breath they fall,
     The perishing kindreds of the leaves; they drift,
Spent flames of scarlet, gold aerial,
     Across the hollow yeara, noiseless and swift.
Lightly He blows, and countless as the falling
     Of snow by night upon the solemn sea,
The ages circle down beyond recalling
     To strew the hollows of Eternity.
He sees them drifting through the spaces dim.
 And leaves and ages are as one to Him.

The Sower-Sir Charles G. D. Roberts (1860-1943)

A brown, sad-coloured hillside, where the soil
     Fresh from the frequent harrow deep and fine,
     Lies bare; no break in the remote sky-line,
Save where a flock of pigeons streams aloft,
Startled from feed in some low-lying croft,
     Or far-off spires with yellow of sunset shine
And here the Sower, unwittingly divine,
Exerts the silent forethought of his toil.

Alone he treads the glebe, his measured stride
     Dumb in the yielding soil; and though small joy
     Dwell in his heavy face, as spreads the blind
Pale grain from his dispensing palm aside,
     This plodding churl grows great in his employ;--
     God-like, he makes provision for mankind.

The Growth of Love-Robert Bridges (1844-1930)

The very names of things belov'd are dear,
And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,
And many a face thro' love's long residence
Groweth to fair instead of plain and sere:
But when I say thy name it hath no peer,
And I suppose fortune determined thence
Her dower, that such beauty's excellence
Should have a perfect title for the ear.

     Thus may I think the adopting Muses chose
Their sons by name, knowing none would be heard
Or writ so oft in all the world as those,--Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for third
The classic Milton, and to us arose
Shelley with liquid music in the word.

Nightingales--Robert Bridges (1844-1930)

BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, where-
from
              Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
     Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
               Bloom the year long!

     Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the
          streams:
     Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
              A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
     No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
              For all our art.

     Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
     We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
              As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and brushing boughs
          of May.
     Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
                        Welcome the dawn.