At Dawn
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?

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