ROOMfor the children out of doors,For heads of gold or gloom;For raspberry lips and rose-leaf cheeks and palms,Make room—make room!Room for the springtime out of doors,For buds in green or bloom;For every brown bare-handed country weedMake room—make room!Room for earth’s sweetest out of doors,And for its worst a tomb;For housed-up griefs and fears, and scorns, and sighs,No room—no room!
ROOMfor the children out of doors,For heads of gold or gloom;For raspberry lips and rose-leaf cheeks and palms,Make room—make room!Room for the springtime out of doors,For buds in green or bloom;For every brown bare-handed country weedMake room—make room!Room for earth’s sweetest out of doors,And for its worst a tomb;For housed-up griefs and fears, and scorns, and sighs,No room—no room!
ROOMfor the children out of doors,For heads of gold or gloom;For raspberry lips and rose-leaf cheeks and palms,Make room—make room!
Room for the springtime out of doors,For buds in green or bloom;For every brown bare-handed country weedMake room—make room!
Room for earth’s sweetest out of doors,And for its worst a tomb;For housed-up griefs and fears, and scorns, and sighs,No room—no room!
AGAINSTmy window-paneHe plunges at a massOf buds—and strikes in vainThe intervening glass.O sprite of wings and fireOutstretching eagerly,My soul with like desireTo probe thy mystery,Comes close as breast to bloom,As bud to hot heart-beat,And gains no inner room,And drains no hidden sweet.
AGAINSTmy window-paneHe plunges at a massOf buds—and strikes in vainThe intervening glass.O sprite of wings and fireOutstretching eagerly,My soul with like desireTo probe thy mystery,Comes close as breast to bloom,As bud to hot heart-beat,And gains no inner room,And drains no hidden sweet.
AGAINSTmy window-paneHe plunges at a massOf buds—and strikes in vainThe intervening glass.
O sprite of wings and fireOutstretching eagerly,My soul with like desireTo probe thy mystery,
Comes close as breast to bloom,As bud to hot heart-beat,And gains no inner room,And drains no hidden sweet.
BUTyesterday all faint for breath,The Summer laid her down to die;And now her frail ghost wanderethIn every breeze that loiters by.Her wilted prisoners look up,As wondering who hath broke their chain,Too deep they drank of summer’s cup,They have no strength to rise again.How swift the trees, their mistress gone,Enrobe themselves for revelry!Ungovernable winds uponThe wold are dancing merrily.With crimson fruits and bursting nuts,And whirling leaves and flushing streams,The spirit of September cutsAdrift from August’s languid dreams.A little while the revellersShall flame and flaunt and have their day,And then will come the messengersWho travel on a cloudy way.And after them a form of light,A sense of iron in the air,Upon the pulse a touch of mightAnd winter’s legions everywhere.
BUTyesterday all faint for breath,The Summer laid her down to die;And now her frail ghost wanderethIn every breeze that loiters by.Her wilted prisoners look up,As wondering who hath broke their chain,Too deep they drank of summer’s cup,They have no strength to rise again.How swift the trees, their mistress gone,Enrobe themselves for revelry!Ungovernable winds uponThe wold are dancing merrily.With crimson fruits and bursting nuts,And whirling leaves and flushing streams,The spirit of September cutsAdrift from August’s languid dreams.A little while the revellersShall flame and flaunt and have their day,And then will come the messengersWho travel on a cloudy way.And after them a form of light,A sense of iron in the air,Upon the pulse a touch of mightAnd winter’s legions everywhere.
BUTyesterday all faint for breath,The Summer laid her down to die;And now her frail ghost wanderethIn every breeze that loiters by.Her wilted prisoners look up,As wondering who hath broke their chain,Too deep they drank of summer’s cup,They have no strength to rise again.
How swift the trees, their mistress gone,Enrobe themselves for revelry!Ungovernable winds uponThe wold are dancing merrily.With crimson fruits and bursting nuts,And whirling leaves and flushing streams,The spirit of September cutsAdrift from August’s languid dreams.
A little while the revellersShall flame and flaunt and have their day,And then will come the messengersWho travel on a cloudy way.
And after them a form of light,A sense of iron in the air,Upon the pulse a touch of mightAnd winter’s legions everywhere.
UNLEAVED, undrooping, still, they stand,This stanch and patient pilgrim band;October robbed them of their fruit,November stripped them to the root,The winter smote their helplessnessWith furious ire and stormy stress,And now they seem almost to standIn sight of Summer’s Promised Land.Yet seen through frosty window-panes,When bared and bound in wintry chains,Their lightsome spirits seemed to playWith February as with May.The snow that turned the skies afrownEnwrapt them in the softest down,And rains that dulled the landscape o’erBut left them livelier than before.But now this June-like day of MarchWith patient strength their branches arch,Not as unmindful of the breezeThat makes midsummer melodies,But knowing Spring a fickle maid,And that rough days must dawn and fadeBefore, all blossoming bright, they standIn sight of Summer’s Promised Land.
UNLEAVED, undrooping, still, they stand,This stanch and patient pilgrim band;October robbed them of their fruit,November stripped them to the root,The winter smote their helplessnessWith furious ire and stormy stress,And now they seem almost to standIn sight of Summer’s Promised Land.Yet seen through frosty window-panes,When bared and bound in wintry chains,Their lightsome spirits seemed to playWith February as with May.The snow that turned the skies afrownEnwrapt them in the softest down,And rains that dulled the landscape o’erBut left them livelier than before.But now this June-like day of MarchWith patient strength their branches arch,Not as unmindful of the breezeThat makes midsummer melodies,But knowing Spring a fickle maid,And that rough days must dawn and fadeBefore, all blossoming bright, they standIn sight of Summer’s Promised Land.
UNLEAVED, undrooping, still, they stand,This stanch and patient pilgrim band;October robbed them of their fruit,November stripped them to the root,The winter smote their helplessnessWith furious ire and stormy stress,And now they seem almost to standIn sight of Summer’s Promised Land.
Yet seen through frosty window-panes,When bared and bound in wintry chains,Their lightsome spirits seemed to playWith February as with May.The snow that turned the skies afrownEnwrapt them in the softest down,And rains that dulled the landscape o’erBut left them livelier than before.
But now this June-like day of MarchWith patient strength their branches arch,Not as unmindful of the breezeThat makes midsummer melodies,But knowing Spring a fickle maid,And that rough days must dawn and fadeBefore, all blossoming bright, they standIn sight of Summer’s Promised Land.
THEblind man at his window barsStands in the morning dewy dim;The lily-footed dawn, the starsThat wait for it, are naught to him.And naught to his unseeing eyesThe brownness of a sunny plain,Where worn and drowsy August lies,And wakens but to sleep again.And naught to him a greening slope,That yearns up to the heights above,And naught the leaves of May, that opeAs softly as the eyes of love.And naught to him the branching aisles,Athrong with woodland worshippers,And naught the fields where summer smilesAmong her sunburned laborers.The way a trailing streamlet goes,The barefoot grasses on its brim,The dew a flower cup o’erflowsWith silent joy, are hid from him.To him no breath of nature calls;Upon his desk his work is laid;He looks up at the dingy walls,And listens to the voice of Trade.
THEblind man at his window barsStands in the morning dewy dim;The lily-footed dawn, the starsThat wait for it, are naught to him.And naught to his unseeing eyesThe brownness of a sunny plain,Where worn and drowsy August lies,And wakens but to sleep again.And naught to him a greening slope,That yearns up to the heights above,And naught the leaves of May, that opeAs softly as the eyes of love.And naught to him the branching aisles,Athrong with woodland worshippers,And naught the fields where summer smilesAmong her sunburned laborers.The way a trailing streamlet goes,The barefoot grasses on its brim,The dew a flower cup o’erflowsWith silent joy, are hid from him.To him no breath of nature calls;Upon his desk his work is laid;He looks up at the dingy walls,And listens to the voice of Trade.
THEblind man at his window barsStands in the morning dewy dim;The lily-footed dawn, the starsThat wait for it, are naught to him.
And naught to his unseeing eyesThe brownness of a sunny plain,Where worn and drowsy August lies,And wakens but to sleep again.
And naught to him a greening slope,That yearns up to the heights above,And naught the leaves of May, that opeAs softly as the eyes of love.
And naught to him the branching aisles,Athrong with woodland worshippers,And naught the fields where summer smilesAmong her sunburned laborers.
The way a trailing streamlet goes,The barefoot grasses on its brim,The dew a flower cup o’erflowsWith silent joy, are hid from him.
To him no breath of nature calls;Upon his desk his work is laid;He looks up at the dingy walls,And listens to the voice of Trade.
OLDplaymate, showering the wayWith thick leaf storms in red and gold,I’m only six years old to-day,You’ve made me feel but six years old.In yellow gown and scarlet hoodI whirled, a leaf among the rest,Or lay within the thinning wood,And played that you were Red-of-breast.Old comrade, lift me up again;Your arms are strong, your feet are swift,And bear me lightly down the laneThrough all the leaves that drift and drift,And out into the twilight wood,And lay me softly down to rest,And cover me just as you wouldIf you were really Red-of-breast.
OLDplaymate, showering the wayWith thick leaf storms in red and gold,I’m only six years old to-day,You’ve made me feel but six years old.In yellow gown and scarlet hoodI whirled, a leaf among the rest,Or lay within the thinning wood,And played that you were Red-of-breast.Old comrade, lift me up again;Your arms are strong, your feet are swift,And bear me lightly down the laneThrough all the leaves that drift and drift,And out into the twilight wood,And lay me softly down to rest,And cover me just as you wouldIf you were really Red-of-breast.
OLDplaymate, showering the wayWith thick leaf storms in red and gold,I’m only six years old to-day,You’ve made me feel but six years old.In yellow gown and scarlet hoodI whirled, a leaf among the rest,Or lay within the thinning wood,And played that you were Red-of-breast.
Old comrade, lift me up again;Your arms are strong, your feet are swift,And bear me lightly down the laneThrough all the leaves that drift and drift,And out into the twilight wood,And lay me softly down to rest,And cover me just as you wouldIf you were really Red-of-breast.
THEsky’s great curtains downward steal,The earth’s fair companyOf trees and streams and meadows feelA sense of privacy.Upon the vast expanse of heatLight-footed breezes pace;To waves of gold they tread the wheat,They lift the sunflower’s face.The cruel sun is blotted out,The west is black with rain,The drooping leaves in mingled doubtAnd hope look up again.The weeds and grass on tiptoe stand,A strange exultant thrillPrepares the dazed uncertain landFor the wild tempest’s will.The wind grows big and breathes aloudAs it runs hurrying past;At one sharp blow the thunder-cloudLets loose the furious blast.The earth is beaten, drenched and drowned,The elements go mad;Swift streams of joy flow o’er the ground,And all the leaves are glad.Then comes a momentary lull,The darkest clouds are furled,And lo, new washed and beautifulAnd breathless gleams the world.
THEsky’s great curtains downward steal,The earth’s fair companyOf trees and streams and meadows feelA sense of privacy.Upon the vast expanse of heatLight-footed breezes pace;To waves of gold they tread the wheat,They lift the sunflower’s face.The cruel sun is blotted out,The west is black with rain,The drooping leaves in mingled doubtAnd hope look up again.The weeds and grass on tiptoe stand,A strange exultant thrillPrepares the dazed uncertain landFor the wild tempest’s will.The wind grows big and breathes aloudAs it runs hurrying past;At one sharp blow the thunder-cloudLets loose the furious blast.The earth is beaten, drenched and drowned,The elements go mad;Swift streams of joy flow o’er the ground,And all the leaves are glad.Then comes a momentary lull,The darkest clouds are furled,And lo, new washed and beautifulAnd breathless gleams the world.
THEsky’s great curtains downward steal,The earth’s fair companyOf trees and streams and meadows feelA sense of privacy.
Upon the vast expanse of heatLight-footed breezes pace;To waves of gold they tread the wheat,They lift the sunflower’s face.
The cruel sun is blotted out,The west is black with rain,The drooping leaves in mingled doubtAnd hope look up again.
The weeds and grass on tiptoe stand,A strange exultant thrillPrepares the dazed uncertain landFor the wild tempest’s will.
The wind grows big and breathes aloudAs it runs hurrying past;At one sharp blow the thunder-cloudLets loose the furious blast.
The earth is beaten, drenched and drowned,The elements go mad;Swift streams of joy flow o’er the ground,And all the leaves are glad.
Then comes a momentary lull,The darkest clouds are furled,And lo, new washed and beautifulAnd breathless gleams the world.
ADROWSYrain is stealingIn slowness without stop;The sun-dried earth is feelingIts coolness, drop by drop.The clouds are slowly wastingTheir too long garnered store,Each thirsty clod is tastingOne drop—and then one more.Oh, ravishing as slumberTo wearied limbs and eyes,And countless as the numberOf stars in wintry skies,And sweet as the caressesBy baby fingers made,These delicate rain kissesOn leaf and flower and blade.
ADROWSYrain is stealingIn slowness without stop;The sun-dried earth is feelingIts coolness, drop by drop.The clouds are slowly wastingTheir too long garnered store,Each thirsty clod is tastingOne drop—and then one more.Oh, ravishing as slumberTo wearied limbs and eyes,And countless as the numberOf stars in wintry skies,And sweet as the caressesBy baby fingers made,These delicate rain kissesOn leaf and flower and blade.
ADROWSYrain is stealingIn slowness without stop;The sun-dried earth is feelingIts coolness, drop by drop.
The clouds are slowly wastingTheir too long garnered store,Each thirsty clod is tastingOne drop—and then one more.
Oh, ravishing as slumberTo wearied limbs and eyes,And countless as the numberOf stars in wintry skies,
And sweet as the caressesBy baby fingers made,These delicate rain kissesOn leaf and flower and blade.
THEpatient earth that loves the grass,The flocks and herds that o’er it pass,That guards the smallest summer nestWithin her scented bosom pressed,And gives to beetle, moth, and beeA lavish hospitality,Still waits through weary years to bindThe hearts of suffering human kind.
THEpatient earth that loves the grass,The flocks and herds that o’er it pass,That guards the smallest summer nestWithin her scented bosom pressed,And gives to beetle, moth, and beeA lavish hospitality,Still waits through weary years to bindThe hearts of suffering human kind.
THEpatient earth that loves the grass,The flocks and herds that o’er it pass,That guards the smallest summer nestWithin her scented bosom pressed,And gives to beetle, moth, and beeA lavish hospitality,Still waits through weary years to bindThe hearts of suffering human kind.
HOWfar we roamed away from her,The tender mother of us all!Yet ’mid the city’s noises stirThe sound of birds that call and call,Wind melodies that rise and fallAlong the perfumed woodland wallWe looked upon with childhood’s eyes;The ugly streets are all a blur,And in our hearts are homesick cries.
HOWfar we roamed away from her,The tender mother of us all!Yet ’mid the city’s noises stirThe sound of birds that call and call,Wind melodies that rise and fallAlong the perfumed woodland wallWe looked upon with childhood’s eyes;The ugly streets are all a blur,And in our hearts are homesick cries.
HOWfar we roamed away from her,The tender mother of us all!Yet ’mid the city’s noises stirThe sound of birds that call and call,Wind melodies that rise and fallAlong the perfumed woodland wallWe looked upon with childhood’s eyes;The ugly streets are all a blur,And in our hearts are homesick cries.
THEloving earth that roots the treesSo closely to her inmost heart,Has rooted us as well as these,Not long from her we live apart;We draw upon a lengthening string,For months perhaps, perhaps for years,And plume ourselves that we are free,And then—we hear a robin singWhere starving grass shows stunted spears,Or haycart moving fragrantlyWhere creaking tavern sign-boards swing;Then closer, tighter draws the chain,The man, too old and worn for tears,Goes back to be a child again.
THEloving earth that roots the treesSo closely to her inmost heart,Has rooted us as well as these,Not long from her we live apart;We draw upon a lengthening string,For months perhaps, perhaps for years,And plume ourselves that we are free,And then—we hear a robin singWhere starving grass shows stunted spears,Or haycart moving fragrantlyWhere creaking tavern sign-boards swing;Then closer, tighter draws the chain,The man, too old and worn for tears,Goes back to be a child again.
THEloving earth that roots the treesSo closely to her inmost heart,Has rooted us as well as these,Not long from her we live apart;We draw upon a lengthening string,For months perhaps, perhaps for years,And plume ourselves that we are free,And then—we hear a robin singWhere starving grass shows stunted spears,Or haycart moving fragrantlyWhere creaking tavern sign-boards swing;Then closer, tighter draws the chain,The man, too old and worn for tears,Goes back to be a child again.
THEgreed that took us prisonerFirst led our steps away from her;For lust of gold we gave up life,And sank heart-deep in worldly strife.And when Success—belovèd name—At last with faltering footsteps came,The city’s rough, harsh imps of soundAnd Competition’s crush and cheatWere in her wreath securely bound;Her fruits still savored of the street,Its choking dust, its wearied feet,Her poorest like her richest prizeWas rotted o’er with envious eyes,And sickened with the human heatOf hands that strove to clutch it fast,And struggling gave it up at last.Not so where nature summer-crownedMakes fields and woods a pleasure-ground,Sky-blest, wind-kissed, and circled roundWith waters lapsing cool and sweet.
THEgreed that took us prisonerFirst led our steps away from her;For lust of gold we gave up life,And sank heart-deep in worldly strife.And when Success—belovèd name—At last with faltering footsteps came,The city’s rough, harsh imps of soundAnd Competition’s crush and cheatWere in her wreath securely bound;Her fruits still savored of the street,Its choking dust, its wearied feet,Her poorest like her richest prizeWas rotted o’er with envious eyes,And sickened with the human heatOf hands that strove to clutch it fast,And struggling gave it up at last.Not so where nature summer-crownedMakes fields and woods a pleasure-ground,Sky-blest, wind-kissed, and circled roundWith waters lapsing cool and sweet.
THEgreed that took us prisonerFirst led our steps away from her;For lust of gold we gave up life,And sank heart-deep in worldly strife.And when Success—belovèd name—At last with faltering footsteps came,The city’s rough, harsh imps of soundAnd Competition’s crush and cheatWere in her wreath securely bound;Her fruits still savored of the street,Its choking dust, its wearied feet,Her poorest like her richest prizeWas rotted o’er with envious eyes,And sickened with the human heatOf hands that strove to clutch it fast,And struggling gave it up at last.Not so where nature summer-crownedMakes fields and woods a pleasure-ground,Sky-blest, wind-kissed, and circled roundWith waters lapsing cool and sweet.
OEARTH, sweet Mother, take us back!With woodland strength and orchard joy,And river peace without alloy,Flood us who on the city’s trackHave followed stifling sordid years,Cleanse us with dew and meadow rain,Till life’s horizon lights and clears,And nature claims us once again.
OEARTH, sweet Mother, take us back!With woodland strength and orchard joy,And river peace without alloy,Flood us who on the city’s trackHave followed stifling sordid years,Cleanse us with dew and meadow rain,Till life’s horizon lights and clears,And nature claims us once again.
OEARTH, sweet Mother, take us back!With woodland strength and orchard joy,And river peace without alloy,Flood us who on the city’s trackHave followed stifling sordid years,Cleanse us with dew and meadow rain,Till life’s horizon lights and clears,And nature claims us once again.
ASPIRITthroughMy window came when earth was soft with dew,Close at the tender edge of dawn when allThe spring was new,And bore me backAlong her rose-and-starry tinted track,And showed me how the full-winged day emergedFrom out the black.She knew the speechOf all the deep-pink blossoms of the peach,Told in my ear the meanings of the trees,The thoughts of each;Explained to meThe language of the bird and frog and bee,The messages the streams and rivers takeUnto the sea.Alas! Alas!I have forgot. The dream did from me pass.I know not e’en the meaning dear and sweetOf common grass.And now when IRoam this strange earth beneath a stranger sky,Soft syllables of that forgotten speechFaint as a sigh,Come back again,With sweet solicitings that urge like pain,And brood like love—as full of light and darkAs April rain.
ASPIRITthroughMy window came when earth was soft with dew,Close at the tender edge of dawn when allThe spring was new,And bore me backAlong her rose-and-starry tinted track,And showed me how the full-winged day emergedFrom out the black.She knew the speechOf all the deep-pink blossoms of the peach,Told in my ear the meanings of the trees,The thoughts of each;Explained to meThe language of the bird and frog and bee,The messages the streams and rivers takeUnto the sea.Alas! Alas!I have forgot. The dream did from me pass.I know not e’en the meaning dear and sweetOf common grass.And now when IRoam this strange earth beneath a stranger sky,Soft syllables of that forgotten speechFaint as a sigh,Come back again,With sweet solicitings that urge like pain,And brood like love—as full of light and darkAs April rain.
ASPIRITthroughMy window came when earth was soft with dew,Close at the tender edge of dawn when allThe spring was new,
And bore me backAlong her rose-and-starry tinted track,And showed me how the full-winged day emergedFrom out the black.
She knew the speechOf all the deep-pink blossoms of the peach,Told in my ear the meanings of the trees,The thoughts of each;
Explained to meThe language of the bird and frog and bee,The messages the streams and rivers takeUnto the sea.
Alas! Alas!I have forgot. The dream did from me pass.I know not e’en the meaning dear and sweetOf common grass.
And now when IRoam this strange earth beneath a stranger sky,Soft syllables of that forgotten speechFaint as a sigh,
Come back again,With sweet solicitings that urge like pain,And brood like love—as full of light and darkAs April rain.
HEREin the crowded city’s busy street,Swayed by the eager, jostling, hasting throng,Where Traffic’s voice grows harsher and more strong,I see within the stream of hurrying feetA company of trees in their retreat,Dew-bathed, dream-wrapped, and with a thrush’s songEmparadising all the place, alongWhose paths I hear the pulse of Beauty beat.’Twas yesterday I walked beneath the trees,To-day I tread the city’s stony ways;And still the spell that o’er my spirit cameTurns harshest sounds to shy bird ecstasies,Pours scent of pine through murky chimney haze,And gives each careworn face a woodland frame.
HEREin the crowded city’s busy street,Swayed by the eager, jostling, hasting throng,Where Traffic’s voice grows harsher and more strong,I see within the stream of hurrying feetA company of trees in their retreat,Dew-bathed, dream-wrapped, and with a thrush’s songEmparadising all the place, alongWhose paths I hear the pulse of Beauty beat.’Twas yesterday I walked beneath the trees,To-day I tread the city’s stony ways;And still the spell that o’er my spirit cameTurns harshest sounds to shy bird ecstasies,Pours scent of pine through murky chimney haze,And gives each careworn face a woodland frame.
HEREin the crowded city’s busy street,Swayed by the eager, jostling, hasting throng,Where Traffic’s voice grows harsher and more strong,I see within the stream of hurrying feetA company of trees in their retreat,Dew-bathed, dream-wrapped, and with a thrush’s songEmparadising all the place, alongWhose paths I hear the pulse of Beauty beat.
’Twas yesterday I walked beneath the trees,To-day I tread the city’s stony ways;And still the spell that o’er my spirit cameTurns harshest sounds to shy bird ecstasies,Pours scent of pine through murky chimney haze,And gives each careworn face a woodland frame.
BYfields of grass and woodland silencesThe city’s tumult is encamped around;The jingling, clanging, shrieking fiends of soundExpire within the wide world-circling breeze.The soul amid a multitude of trees,Or grass enveloped on the fragrant ground,Is lifted to its utmost starry round,And listens to celestial harmonies.From this unspeakably divine rebirth,Its sordid life returning shows through riftsHow purely spreads the sky, how musicalThe streams and breezes flow across the earth,How light the tree its fruity load uplifts,How easily the weed is beautiful.
BYfields of grass and woodland silencesThe city’s tumult is encamped around;The jingling, clanging, shrieking fiends of soundExpire within the wide world-circling breeze.The soul amid a multitude of trees,Or grass enveloped on the fragrant ground,Is lifted to its utmost starry round,And listens to celestial harmonies.From this unspeakably divine rebirth,Its sordid life returning shows through riftsHow purely spreads the sky, how musicalThe streams and breezes flow across the earth,How light the tree its fruity load uplifts,How easily the weed is beautiful.
BYfields of grass and woodland silencesThe city’s tumult is encamped around;The jingling, clanging, shrieking fiends of soundExpire within the wide world-circling breeze.The soul amid a multitude of trees,Or grass enveloped on the fragrant ground,Is lifted to its utmost starry round,And listens to celestial harmonies.
From this unspeakably divine rebirth,Its sordid life returning shows through riftsHow purely spreads the sky, how musicalThe streams and breezes flow across the earth,How light the tree its fruity load uplifts,How easily the weed is beautiful.
AGAINSTthe winter’s heav’n of white the bloodOf earth runs very quick and hot to-day;A storm of fiery leaves are out at playAround the lingering sunset of the wood.Where rows of blackberries unnoticed stood,Run streams of ruddy color wildly gay;The golden lane half dreaming picks its wayThrough ’whelming vines, as through a gleaming flood.O warm, outspoken earth, a little spaceAgainst thy beating heart my heart shall beat,A little while they twain shall bleed and burn,And then the cold touch and the gray, gray face,The frozen pulse, the drifted winding-sheet,And speechlessness, and the chill burial urn.
AGAINSTthe winter’s heav’n of white the bloodOf earth runs very quick and hot to-day;A storm of fiery leaves are out at playAround the lingering sunset of the wood.Where rows of blackberries unnoticed stood,Run streams of ruddy color wildly gay;The golden lane half dreaming picks its wayThrough ’whelming vines, as through a gleaming flood.O warm, outspoken earth, a little spaceAgainst thy beating heart my heart shall beat,A little while they twain shall bleed and burn,And then the cold touch and the gray, gray face,The frozen pulse, the drifted winding-sheet,And speechlessness, and the chill burial urn.
AGAINSTthe winter’s heav’n of white the bloodOf earth runs very quick and hot to-day;A storm of fiery leaves are out at playAround the lingering sunset of the wood.Where rows of blackberries unnoticed stood,Run streams of ruddy color wildly gay;The golden lane half dreaming picks its wayThrough ’whelming vines, as through a gleaming flood.
O warm, outspoken earth, a little spaceAgainst thy beating heart my heart shall beat,A little while they twain shall bleed and burn,And then the cold touch and the gray, gray face,The frozen pulse, the drifted winding-sheet,And speechlessness, and the chill burial urn.
NOWthat the earth has hid her lovely broodOf green things in her breast safe out of sight,And all the trees have stripped them for the fight,The winter comes with wild winds singing rudeHoarse battle songs—so furious in feudThat nothing lives that has not felt their bite.They sound a trumpet in the dead of nightThat makes more solitary solitude.Against the forest doors how fierce they beat!Against the porch, against the school-bound boyWith crimson cheek bent to his shaggy coat.The earth is pale but steadfast, hearing sweetBut far—how far away! the stream of joyOutpouring from a bluebird’s tender throat.
NOWthat the earth has hid her lovely broodOf green things in her breast safe out of sight,And all the trees have stripped them for the fight,The winter comes with wild winds singing rudeHoarse battle songs—so furious in feudThat nothing lives that has not felt their bite.They sound a trumpet in the dead of nightThat makes more solitary solitude.Against the forest doors how fierce they beat!Against the porch, against the school-bound boyWith crimson cheek bent to his shaggy coat.The earth is pale but steadfast, hearing sweetBut far—how far away! the stream of joyOutpouring from a bluebird’s tender throat.
NOWthat the earth has hid her lovely broodOf green things in her breast safe out of sight,And all the trees have stripped them for the fight,The winter comes with wild winds singing rudeHoarse battle songs—so furious in feudThat nothing lives that has not felt their bite.They sound a trumpet in the dead of nightThat makes more solitary solitude.
Against the forest doors how fierce they beat!Against the porch, against the school-bound boyWith crimson cheek bent to his shaggy coat.The earth is pale but steadfast, hearing sweetBut far—how far away! the stream of joyOutpouring from a bluebird’s tender throat.
THEgreat, soft, downy snow-storm like a cloakDescends to wrap the lean world head to feet;It gives the dead another winding-sheet,It buries all the roofs until the smokeSeems like a soul that from its clay has broke;It broods moon-like upon the Autumn wheat,And visits all the trees in their retreat,To hood and mantle that poor shiv’ring folk.With wintry bloom it fills the harshest groovesIn jagged pine stump fences. Every soundIt hushes to the footstep of a nun.Sweet Charity! that brightens where it moves,Inducing darkest bits of churlish groundTo give a radiant answer to the sun.
THEgreat, soft, downy snow-storm like a cloakDescends to wrap the lean world head to feet;It gives the dead another winding-sheet,It buries all the roofs until the smokeSeems like a soul that from its clay has broke;It broods moon-like upon the Autumn wheat,And visits all the trees in their retreat,To hood and mantle that poor shiv’ring folk.With wintry bloom it fills the harshest groovesIn jagged pine stump fences. Every soundIt hushes to the footstep of a nun.Sweet Charity! that brightens where it moves,Inducing darkest bits of churlish groundTo give a radiant answer to the sun.
THEgreat, soft, downy snow-storm like a cloakDescends to wrap the lean world head to feet;It gives the dead another winding-sheet,It buries all the roofs until the smokeSeems like a soul that from its clay has broke;It broods moon-like upon the Autumn wheat,And visits all the trees in their retreat,To hood and mantle that poor shiv’ring folk.
With wintry bloom it fills the harshest groovesIn jagged pine stump fences. Every soundIt hushes to the footstep of a nun.Sweet Charity! that brightens where it moves,Inducing darkest bits of churlish groundTo give a radiant answer to the sun.
OMASTER-BUILDER, blustering as you goAbout your giant work, transforming allThe empty woods into a glittering hall,And making lilac lanes and footpaths growAs hard as iron under stubborn snow,Though every fence stand forth a marble wall,And windy hollows drift to arches tall,There comes a might that shall your might o’erthrow.Build high your white and dazzling palaces,Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers,Storm with a loud and a portentous lip;And April with a fragmentary breeze,And half a score of gentle, golden hours,Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship.
OMASTER-BUILDER, blustering as you goAbout your giant work, transforming allThe empty woods into a glittering hall,And making lilac lanes and footpaths growAs hard as iron under stubborn snow,Though every fence stand forth a marble wall,And windy hollows drift to arches tall,There comes a might that shall your might o’erthrow.Build high your white and dazzling palaces,Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers,Storm with a loud and a portentous lip;And April with a fragmentary breeze,And half a score of gentle, golden hours,Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship.
OMASTER-BUILDER, blustering as you goAbout your giant work, transforming allThe empty woods into a glittering hall,And making lilac lanes and footpaths growAs hard as iron under stubborn snow,Though every fence stand forth a marble wall,And windy hollows drift to arches tall,There comes a might that shall your might o’erthrow.
Build high your white and dazzling palaces,Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers,Storm with a loud and a portentous lip;And April with a fragmentary breeze,And half a score of gentle, golden hours,Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship.
FROMthe depths of dreams I am drawnTo the inner depth of a pine,That near my window keeps the dawn—A dawn that is wholly mine.Dream-rest and pine-rest,And a cool, gray path between—A cool, gray path from the night’s breastTo the heart of the living green.To the depths of dreams I goOn the sounds of falling rain,That in the night-time gently flowIn a stream on my window-pane.Stream-rest and dream-rest,And a cool, dark path between—A cool, dark path from the rain’s breastTo the heart of the soft unseen.
FROMthe depths of dreams I am drawnTo the inner depth of a pine,That near my window keeps the dawn—A dawn that is wholly mine.Dream-rest and pine-rest,And a cool, gray path between—A cool, gray path from the night’s breastTo the heart of the living green.To the depths of dreams I goOn the sounds of falling rain,That in the night-time gently flowIn a stream on my window-pane.Stream-rest and dream-rest,And a cool, dark path between—A cool, dark path from the rain’s breastTo the heart of the soft unseen.
FROMthe depths of dreams I am drawnTo the inner depth of a pine,That near my window keeps the dawn—A dawn that is wholly mine.Dream-rest and pine-rest,And a cool, gray path between—A cool, gray path from the night’s breastTo the heart of the living green.
To the depths of dreams I goOn the sounds of falling rain,That in the night-time gently flowIn a stream on my window-pane.Stream-rest and dream-rest,And a cool, dark path between—A cool, dark path from the rain’s breastTo the heart of the soft unseen.
THEsun went with me to the wood,And lingered at the door;One glance he gave from where he stood,But dared not venture more,Nor knew that in the heart of herWho felt his presence nigh,His love was all the lovelierBecause his look was shy.
THEsun went with me to the wood,And lingered at the door;One glance he gave from where he stood,But dared not venture more,Nor knew that in the heart of herWho felt his presence nigh,His love was all the lovelierBecause his look was shy.
THEsun went with me to the wood,And lingered at the door;One glance he gave from where he stood,But dared not venture more,
Nor knew that in the heart of herWho felt his presence nigh,His love was all the lovelierBecause his look was shy.
WHENSpring unbound comes o’er us like a flood,My spirit slips its bars,And thrills to see the trees break into budAs skies break into stars;And joys that earth is green with eager grass,The heavens gray with rain,And quickens when the spirit breezes pass,And turn and pass again;And dreams upon frog melodies at night,Bird ecstasies at dawn,And wakes to find sweet April at her heightAnd May still beck’ning on;And feels its sordid work, its empty play,Its failures and its stainsDissolved in blossom dew, and washed awayIn delicate spring rains.
WHENSpring unbound comes o’er us like a flood,My spirit slips its bars,And thrills to see the trees break into budAs skies break into stars;And joys that earth is green with eager grass,The heavens gray with rain,And quickens when the spirit breezes pass,And turn and pass again;And dreams upon frog melodies at night,Bird ecstasies at dawn,And wakes to find sweet April at her heightAnd May still beck’ning on;And feels its sordid work, its empty play,Its failures and its stainsDissolved in blossom dew, and washed awayIn delicate spring rains.
WHENSpring unbound comes o’er us like a flood,My spirit slips its bars,And thrills to see the trees break into budAs skies break into stars;
And joys that earth is green with eager grass,The heavens gray with rain,And quickens when the spirit breezes pass,And turn and pass again;
And dreams upon frog melodies at night,Bird ecstasies at dawn,And wakes to find sweet April at her heightAnd May still beck’ning on;
And feels its sordid work, its empty play,Its failures and its stainsDissolved in blossom dew, and washed awayIn delicate spring rains.
AMIDthe young year’s breathing hopes,When eager grasses wrap the earth,I see on greening orchard slopesThe blossoms trembling into birth.They open wide their rosy palmsTo feel the hesitating rain,Or beg a longed-for golden almsFrom skies that deep in clouds have lain.They mingle with the bluebird’s songs,And with the warm wind’s reverie;To sward and stream their snow belongs,To neighboring pines in flocks they flee.O doubly crowned, with breathing hopesThe branches bending down to earth,That feel on greening orchard slopesTheir blossoms trembling into birth.
AMIDthe young year’s breathing hopes,When eager grasses wrap the earth,I see on greening orchard slopesThe blossoms trembling into birth.They open wide their rosy palmsTo feel the hesitating rain,Or beg a longed-for golden almsFrom skies that deep in clouds have lain.They mingle with the bluebird’s songs,And with the warm wind’s reverie;To sward and stream their snow belongs,To neighboring pines in flocks they flee.O doubly crowned, with breathing hopesThe branches bending down to earth,That feel on greening orchard slopesTheir blossoms trembling into birth.
AMIDthe young year’s breathing hopes,When eager grasses wrap the earth,I see on greening orchard slopesThe blossoms trembling into birth.They open wide their rosy palmsTo feel the hesitating rain,Or beg a longed-for golden almsFrom skies that deep in clouds have lain.
They mingle with the bluebird’s songs,And with the warm wind’s reverie;To sward and stream their snow belongs,To neighboring pines in flocks they flee.O doubly crowned, with breathing hopesThe branches bending down to earth,That feel on greening orchard slopesTheir blossoms trembling into birth.
THEbig moon came to the edge of the sky,And pierced me with its dart;I strove to put its brightness byBefore it burned my heart.I wrapped the windows thick and well,I closely barred the door,The light of my penny candles fellOn low-built wall and floor.The little room and the little lightBegan to comfort me;But I heard—I heard the golden nightCall like a sounding sea.I knew the moon swam in the sky,And the earth swam in the moon;I went outside in the grass to lie,To yield to the deadly swoon.My soul was filled with white moon rainTill it ran o’er and o’er,My soul was thrilled with bright moon painTill it could bear no more;I stole back through the curtained gloomUp stairs unlit and steep,And in a low-ceiled darkened roomMy hurt was healed with sleep.
THEbig moon came to the edge of the sky,And pierced me with its dart;I strove to put its brightness byBefore it burned my heart.I wrapped the windows thick and well,I closely barred the door,The light of my penny candles fellOn low-built wall and floor.The little room and the little lightBegan to comfort me;But I heard—I heard the golden nightCall like a sounding sea.I knew the moon swam in the sky,And the earth swam in the moon;I went outside in the grass to lie,To yield to the deadly swoon.My soul was filled with white moon rainTill it ran o’er and o’er,My soul was thrilled with bright moon painTill it could bear no more;I stole back through the curtained gloomUp stairs unlit and steep,And in a low-ceiled darkened roomMy hurt was healed with sleep.
THEbig moon came to the edge of the sky,And pierced me with its dart;I strove to put its brightness byBefore it burned my heart.
I wrapped the windows thick and well,I closely barred the door,The light of my penny candles fellOn low-built wall and floor.
The little room and the little lightBegan to comfort me;But I heard—I heard the golden nightCall like a sounding sea.
I knew the moon swam in the sky,And the earth swam in the moon;I went outside in the grass to lie,To yield to the deadly swoon.
My soul was filled with white moon rainTill it ran o’er and o’er,My soul was thrilled with bright moon painTill it could bear no more;
I stole back through the curtained gloomUp stairs unlit and steep,And in a low-ceiled darkened roomMy hurt was healed with sleep.
THEold man and his apple-treeAre verging close on eighty-three;’Twas planted there when he was two,And almost side by side they grew.How strong and straight they were at eight,One leafy, one with curly pate.How fine at twenty, how aliveAnd prosperous at twenty-five.What health and grace in every limb,Was said of it—was said of him.
THEold man and his apple-treeAre verging close on eighty-three;’Twas planted there when he was two,And almost side by side they grew.How strong and straight they were at eight,One leafy, one with curly pate.How fine at twenty, how aliveAnd prosperous at twenty-five.What health and grace in every limb,Was said of it—was said of him.
THEold man and his apple-treeAre verging close on eighty-three;’Twas planted there when he was two,And almost side by side they grew.How strong and straight they were at eight,One leafy, one with curly pate.How fine at twenty, how aliveAnd prosperous at twenty-five.What health and grace in every limb,Was said of it—was said of him.
THENwhen he blushed, a marriage groom,The tree outvied the bride in bloom;And in the after years there playedWithin its ample sweep of shadeA little child, with cheeks as redAs had the apples overhead.Her father called the tree his twin,And surely it was next of kin.
THENwhen he blushed, a marriage groom,The tree outvied the bride in bloom;And in the after years there playedWithin its ample sweep of shadeA little child, with cheeks as redAs had the apples overhead.Her father called the tree his twin,And surely it was next of kin.
THENwhen he blushed, a marriage groom,The tree outvied the bride in bloom;And in the after years there playedWithin its ample sweep of shadeA little child, with cheeks as redAs had the apples overhead.Her father called the tree his twin,And surely it was next of kin.
THEbest of life came to the twain,The beauty of the stars, the rain,Soft stepping, and the liquid notesThat overflow from feathered throats.Unto the soul that selfish strivesWas borne the fragrance of their lives,And anxious folk with brow down bentBathed in their dewy cool content.They held their heads up in the storm,And gloried when the winds were warm;Their shadows lay but at their feet,And all of life above was sweet.
THEbest of life came to the twain,The beauty of the stars, the rain,Soft stepping, and the liquid notesThat overflow from feathered throats.Unto the soul that selfish strivesWas borne the fragrance of their lives,And anxious folk with brow down bentBathed in their dewy cool content.They held their heads up in the storm,And gloried when the winds were warm;Their shadows lay but at their feet,And all of life above was sweet.
THEbest of life came to the twain,The beauty of the stars, the rain,Soft stepping, and the liquid notesThat overflow from feathered throats.Unto the soul that selfish strivesWas borne the fragrance of their lives,And anxious folk with brow down bentBathed in their dewy cool content.They held their heads up in the storm,And gloried when the winds were warm;Their shadows lay but at their feet,And all of life above was sweet.
ANDnow that they are eighty-threeThey’re almost as they used to be.The blossoms are as pink and white,The old man’s heart as pure and light.The apples—fragrant balls of flame—Are looking, tasting, just the same.And just the same his uttered thoughtOf mirth and wisdom quaintly wrought.Through all their years they kept their truth,Their strength, and that sweet look of youth.
ANDnow that they are eighty-threeThey’re almost as they used to be.The blossoms are as pink and white,The old man’s heart as pure and light.The apples—fragrant balls of flame—Are looking, tasting, just the same.And just the same his uttered thoughtOf mirth and wisdom quaintly wrought.Through all their years they kept their truth,Their strength, and that sweet look of youth.
ANDnow that they are eighty-threeThey’re almost as they used to be.The blossoms are as pink and white,The old man’s heart as pure and light.The apples—fragrant balls of flame—Are looking, tasting, just the same.And just the same his uttered thoughtOf mirth and wisdom quaintly wrought.Through all their years they kept their truth,Their strength, and that sweet look of youth.
THEfires of Autumn are burning high;Bright the trees in the woods are blazing—A wall of flame from the brilliant skyDown to the fields where the cattle are grazing.O the warm, warm end of the year!Even the shrubs their red hearts render;All the bushes are bright with cheerAnd the tamest vine has a touch of splendor.The fires of Autumn are burning low;Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing!Blow the flames to a ruddier show,Heap the coals to a hotter glowing.Ah, the chill, chill end of the year!Naught is left but a few leaf flashes;White is the death stone, white and drear,Over a desolate world of ashes.
THEfires of Autumn are burning high;Bright the trees in the woods are blazing—A wall of flame from the brilliant skyDown to the fields where the cattle are grazing.O the warm, warm end of the year!Even the shrubs their red hearts render;All the bushes are bright with cheerAnd the tamest vine has a touch of splendor.The fires of Autumn are burning low;Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing!Blow the flames to a ruddier show,Heap the coals to a hotter glowing.Ah, the chill, chill end of the year!Naught is left but a few leaf flashes;White is the death stone, white and drear,Over a desolate world of ashes.
THEfires of Autumn are burning high;Bright the trees in the woods are blazing—A wall of flame from the brilliant skyDown to the fields where the cattle are grazing.O the warm, warm end of the year!Even the shrubs their red hearts render;All the bushes are bright with cheerAnd the tamest vine has a touch of splendor.
The fires of Autumn are burning low;Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing!Blow the flames to a ruddier show,Heap the coals to a hotter glowing.Ah, the chill, chill end of the year!Naught is left but a few leaf flashes;White is the death stone, white and drear,Over a desolate world of ashes.
FACEdownward on the grass in reverie,I found how cool and sweetAre the green glooms that often thoughtlesslyI tread beneath my feet.In this strange mimic wood where grasses lean—Elf trees untouched of bark—I heard the hum of insects, saw the sheenOf sunlight framing dark,And felt with thoughts I cannot understand,And know not how to speak,A daisy reaching up its little handTo lay it on my cheek.
FACEdownward on the grass in reverie,I found how cool and sweetAre the green glooms that often thoughtlesslyI tread beneath my feet.In this strange mimic wood where grasses lean—Elf trees untouched of bark—I heard the hum of insects, saw the sheenOf sunlight framing dark,And felt with thoughts I cannot understand,And know not how to speak,A daisy reaching up its little handTo lay it on my cheek.
FACEdownward on the grass in reverie,I found how cool and sweetAre the green glooms that often thoughtlesslyI tread beneath my feet.
In this strange mimic wood where grasses lean—Elf trees untouched of bark—I heard the hum of insects, saw the sheenOf sunlight framing dark,
And felt with thoughts I cannot understand,And know not how to speak,A daisy reaching up its little handTo lay it on my cheek.
THEwreathing vine within the porchIs in the heart of me,The roses that the noondays scorchShall burn in memory;Alone at night I quench the light,And without star or sparkThe grass and trees press to my knees,And flowers throng the dark.The leaves that loose their hold at noonDrop on my face like rain,And in the watches of the moonI feel them fall again.By day I stray how far awayTo stream and wood and steep,But on my track they all come backTo haunt the vale of sleep.The fields of light are clover-brimmed,Or grassed or daisy-starred,The fields of dark are softly dimmed,And safely twilight-barred;But in the gloom that fills my roomI cannot fail to markThe grass and trees about my knees,The flowers in the dark.
THEwreathing vine within the porchIs in the heart of me,The roses that the noondays scorchShall burn in memory;Alone at night I quench the light,And without star or sparkThe grass and trees press to my knees,And flowers throng the dark.The leaves that loose their hold at noonDrop on my face like rain,And in the watches of the moonI feel them fall again.By day I stray how far awayTo stream and wood and steep,But on my track they all come backTo haunt the vale of sleep.The fields of light are clover-brimmed,Or grassed or daisy-starred,The fields of dark are softly dimmed,And safely twilight-barred;But in the gloom that fills my roomI cannot fail to markThe grass and trees about my knees,The flowers in the dark.
THEwreathing vine within the porchIs in the heart of me,The roses that the noondays scorchShall burn in memory;Alone at night I quench the light,And without star or sparkThe grass and trees press to my knees,And flowers throng the dark.
The leaves that loose their hold at noonDrop on my face like rain,And in the watches of the moonI feel them fall again.By day I stray how far awayTo stream and wood and steep,But on my track they all come backTo haunt the vale of sleep.
The fields of light are clover-brimmed,Or grassed or daisy-starred,The fields of dark are softly dimmed,And safely twilight-barred;
But in the gloom that fills my roomI cannot fail to markThe grass and trees about my knees,The flowers in the dark.
THOUSANDSof childish ears, rough chidden,Never a sweet bird-note have heard,Deep in the leafy woodland hiddenDies, unlistened to, many a bird.For small soiled hands in the sordid cityBlossoms open and die unbreathed;For feet unwashed by the tears of pityStreams around meadows of green are wreathed.Warm, unrevelled in, still they wander,Summer breezes out in the fields;Scarcely noticed, the green months squanderAll the wealth that the summer yields.Ah, the pain of it! Ah, the pity!Opulent stretch the country skiesOver solitudes, while in the cityStarving for beauty are childish eyes.
THOUSANDSof childish ears, rough chidden,Never a sweet bird-note have heard,Deep in the leafy woodland hiddenDies, unlistened to, many a bird.For small soiled hands in the sordid cityBlossoms open and die unbreathed;For feet unwashed by the tears of pityStreams around meadows of green are wreathed.Warm, unrevelled in, still they wander,Summer breezes out in the fields;Scarcely noticed, the green months squanderAll the wealth that the summer yields.Ah, the pain of it! Ah, the pity!Opulent stretch the country skiesOver solitudes, while in the cityStarving for beauty are childish eyes.
THOUSANDSof childish ears, rough chidden,Never a sweet bird-note have heard,Deep in the leafy woodland hiddenDies, unlistened to, many a bird.For small soiled hands in the sordid cityBlossoms open and die unbreathed;For feet unwashed by the tears of pityStreams around meadows of green are wreathed.
Warm, unrevelled in, still they wander,Summer breezes out in the fields;Scarcely noticed, the green months squanderAll the wealth that the summer yields.Ah, the pain of it! Ah, the pity!Opulent stretch the country skiesOver solitudes, while in the cityStarving for beauty are childish eyes.
WHEREpleasures grow as thick as grass,And joys of silence, soft, profound,Are sweeter e’en than joys of sound,The long, long days of summer pass.I see them sitting in the sun,Or moving river-like betweenThe climbing and down-bending green,I watch them vanish one by one,And strive to clasp them as they flee,But only hold their shadows fast—The summer shadows that they castUpon the path of memory.
WHEREpleasures grow as thick as grass,And joys of silence, soft, profound,Are sweeter e’en than joys of sound,The long, long days of summer pass.I see them sitting in the sun,Or moving river-like betweenThe climbing and down-bending green,I watch them vanish one by one,And strive to clasp them as they flee,But only hold their shadows fast—The summer shadows that they castUpon the path of memory.
WHEREpleasures grow as thick as grass,And joys of silence, soft, profound,Are sweeter e’en than joys of sound,The long, long days of summer pass.
I see them sitting in the sun,Or moving river-like betweenThe climbing and down-bending green,I watch them vanish one by one,
And strive to clasp them as they flee,But only hold their shadows fast—The summer shadows that they castUpon the path of memory.
ILOSTmy heart in the heart of the woods;It stayed there through the day,It stayed there through the solitudesOf a night with no moon ray.Through the day so dusty, worn and sereMy heart was cool and free,Through the wild night, tempest-tossed and drear,My heart slept peacefully.I found my heart in the heart of the woods,I looked on it and smiled;And over it still the woodland broods,As a mother over her child.
ILOSTmy heart in the heart of the woods;It stayed there through the day,It stayed there through the solitudesOf a night with no moon ray.Through the day so dusty, worn and sereMy heart was cool and free,Through the wild night, tempest-tossed and drear,My heart slept peacefully.I found my heart in the heart of the woods,I looked on it and smiled;And over it still the woodland broods,As a mother over her child.
ILOSTmy heart in the heart of the woods;It stayed there through the day,It stayed there through the solitudesOf a night with no moon ray.
Through the day so dusty, worn and sereMy heart was cool and free,Through the wild night, tempest-tossed and drear,My heart slept peacefully.
I found my heart in the heart of the woods,I looked on it and smiled;And over it still the woodland broods,As a mother over her child.
WHENthe sun is growing weaker,And his look is meek and meeker,Comes the frost—the pale betrayer—Light of foot, a stealthy slayer.In the night abroad he stealeth,For each trembling leaf he feeleth;Something softened by its pleading,Kills it not but leaves it bleeding.
WHENthe sun is growing weaker,And his look is meek and meeker,Comes the frost—the pale betrayer—Light of foot, a stealthy slayer.In the night abroad he stealeth,For each trembling leaf he feeleth;Something softened by its pleading,Kills it not but leaves it bleeding.
WHENthe sun is growing weaker,And his look is meek and meeker,Comes the frost—the pale betrayer—Light of foot, a stealthy slayer.
In the night abroad he stealeth,For each trembling leaf he feeleth;Something softened by its pleading,Kills it not but leaves it bleeding.