A Hymn of Empire and Other Poems

by Frederick George Scott




HUSH, let us say, “Our Father,” in this wood,
    And through bare boughs look up into the sky,
    Where fleecy clouds on autumn winds go by.
Here, by this fallen trunk, which long since stood
And praised the Lord and Giver of all good,
    We’ll sing “Magnificat.” With curious eye
    A squirrel watches from a branch on high,
As though he too would join us if he could.

Now in our “Nunc Dimittis,” soft and low,
    Strange woodland voices mingle, one by one;

        Dead songs of vanished birds, the sad increase
Of crumpled leaves on paths where rough winds go,
    The deepening shades, the low October sun,—
         “Lord, let thy servant now depart in peace.”