Its clear droppings, lone and single,
Or when in one full gush they mingle,

Shooting in melodious light.
Thine is music such as yields
Feelings of old brooks and fields,
And, around this pent-up room,
Sheds a woodland, free perfume ;
0, thus forever sing to me!

thus forever! The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me,

Flowing like an emerald river,
And the bright blue skies above !
O, sing them back, as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love,-
The sunshine and the merriment,
The unsought, evergreen content,

Of that never cold time,
The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went

Through and through the old time!
Peace sits within thine eyes,
With white hands crossed in joyful rest,
While, through thy lips and face, arise
The melodies from out thy breast;

She sits and sings,
With folded wings

And white arms crost,
“Weep not for passed things,

They are not lost :
The beauty which the summer time
O’er thine opening spirit shed,
The forest oracles sublime
That filled thy soul with joyous dread,
The scent of every smallest flower
That made thy heart sweet for an hour,
Yea, every holy influence,

Flowing to thee, thou knewest not whence,
In thine eyes to-day is seen,
Fresh as it hath ever been;
Promptings of Nature, beckonings sweet,
Whatever led thy childish feet,
Still will linger unawares
The guiders of thy silver hairs;
Every look and every word
Which thou givest forth to-day,
Tell of the singing of the bird
Whose music stilled thy boyish play.”

Thy voice is like a fountain,
Twinkling up in sharp starlight,
When the moon behind the mountain
Dims the low East with faintest white,

Ever darkling,

Ever sparkling,
We know not if 'tis dark or bright;
But, when the great moon hath rolled 'round,

And, sudden-slow, its solemn power
Grows from behind its black, clearedged bound,

No spot of dark the fountain keepeth,
But, swift as opening eyelids leapeth
Into a waving silver flower.





THICK-rushing, like an ocean vast

Of bisons the far prairie shaking,
The notes crowd heavily and fast
As surfs, one plunging while the last

Draws seaward from its foamy breaking.
Or in low murmurs they began,

Rising and rising momently,
As o'er a harp Æolian
A fitful breeze, until they ran

Up to a sudden ecstasy.
And then, like minute-drops of rain

Ringing in water silverly,
They lingering dropped and dropped again,
Till it was almost like a pain

To listen when the next would be.



TO M. L.

A LILY thou wast when I saw thee first,

A lily-bud not opened quite,

That hourly grew more pure and white, By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed : In all of nature thou hadst thy share;

Thou wast waited on

By the wind and sun ;
The rain and the dew for thee took care;
It seemed thou never couldst be more fair.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,

A lily-bud; but O, how strange,

How full of wonder was the change, When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full bloom

burst! How did the tears to my glad eyes start,

When the woman-flower

Reached its blossoming hour, And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart!

Glad death may pluck thee, but never before

The gold dust of thy bloom divine

Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore; För no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away

Some impulses bright

Of fragrance and light, Which fall upon souls that are lone and astray, To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day.


I would more natures were like thine,

That never casts a glance before, Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine

So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine,

And can but dream of bliss in store.

Thou canst not see a shade in life ;

With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife,

Gazest undazzled at the skies,
With all their blazing splendors rife,

A songful lark with eagle's eyes.
Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours

Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth; Some influence more gay than ours

Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, As if thy natal stars were flowers

That shook their seeds round thee on earth.

And thou, to lull thine infant.rest,

Wast cradled like an Indian child; All pleasant winds from south and west

With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest,

Till Nature looked at thee and smiled.

Thine every fancy seems to borrow

A sunlight from thy childish years,

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