by John Collings Squire (1884-1958)
I rise from the chair and shut the books,
The light is coming, the glad birds wake,
First the little ones, then the rooks–
O the hubbub those old rooks make!
They cease for a moment; a scarce-heard sigh
As the dawn wind rises, the cold trees stir;
As I look at their branches listlessly
Why is it, I wonder, I think of her?