Chapter VI (3)

_Tell All The World_

Tell all the world that summer’s here again
With song and joy; tell them, that they may know
How, on the hillside, in the shining fields
New clumps of violets and daisies grow.

Tell all the world that summer’s here again,
That white clouds voyage through a sky so still
With blue tranquillity, it seems to hang
One windless tapestry, from hill to hill.

Tell all the world that summer’s here again:
Folk go about so solemnly and slow,
Walking each one his grooved and ordered way--
I fear that, otherwise they will not know!

_Harry Kemp_

_Sorrow in a Garden_

Here to this ancient garden
When wintry days had flown
I came, with Comrade Sorrow
To dwell with her alone.

Within this sweet seclusion
Far from the world’s rude stare
What exquisite communings
Sorrow and I would share!

What banquets of remembrance,
What luxury of tears
With Sorrow in a garden
Through the rose scented years!

But one day when she called me
I did not hear her voice;
I only heard the lilies
Which sang, Rejoice! Rejoice!

For _June_ was in the garden
And June was in my heart,--
I had forgot pale Sorrow
And now we dwell apart.

But often in the twilight
When birds and gardens sleep
I feel her presence with me
Her arms about me creep.

And when the ghost of Summer
With the dead roses talks
I hear her softly sobbing
Along the moon-lit walks.

I never can forget her
So intimate were we
But when I walk my garden
She comes no more to me.

_May Riley Smith_

_The Naturalist On A June Sunday_

My old gardener leans on his hoe,
Tells me the way that green things grow;
“Goin’ to church? Why no.
All nature’s church enough for me!”
Says he.

“Preachin’ o’ flower and choir o’ bird,
An’ the wind passin’ the plate--
Sweetest service that ever I heard,
That’s straight!
_Eternal Rest?_
What for, friend?
Gimme a swarm o’ bees to tend,
A honey-makin’, world without end,
That’s what I’d like the best!
(Scoop ’em right up an’ find the queen,
They’d not sting me--the bees ain’ mean!)

“Heaven’s all right!
But still I guess I’ll kinder miss
The Lady Lunar moth at night
And the White Wanderer butterfly
Crawlin’ out of its chrysalis!
I want my heaven human too,
’Twixt me an’ you--
Why I’d jus’ love to see
A chipmunk hop up to the Lord
An’ eat right out o’ His dread Hand
Same as it does to me!
Eternity--eternity--
Don’t it sound grand?
But say
_What’s the matter with today?_
Just step into the wood an’ take a look!
Ain’t that a page o’ teachin’ from the Holy Book?
‘He that hath eyes to see
An’ ears to hear’--
That’s good enough for me!
I guess God’s pretty near,
He’ll understand, I know,
Why I ain’t in no hurry to let June go!”

My old gardener turns to his hoe,
Helping the green things how to grow,
“The Missis can go to church for me!
Amen!” says he.

_Leonora Speyer_

_Summer_[4]

By sea and by land,
In the water-wooed marshes or meadows wide-reaching and bland,
The summer is regal and rich, the summer on every hand
Spills largesses splendid to mortals, to women and men.
For when
Is the breeze sweeter fraught with the breath of the hay,
Is the thrush-note more calm or the robin’s loud lay
More blithe, or the rose more the queen of the day?
Now say,
What month is more bounteous in beauties, in balms,
In lyrics, in psalms,
In gold-heart fair fancies of sunset, and calms
Of twilight, or after-glows wondrously clear?
One may hear
The booming of bees and the brook’s lulled refrain,
The stream’s liquid epic, the grasshopper’s plain,
The frog’s bass reiterant languor at night,
The day-long and dark-long sound-woof, interplight
With dreamings and memories somber or bright.

A very miracle,
I saw a moment gone:
A honeysuckle, vine and bloom,
Lustrous green and coral red,
I glimpsed above my head
Shedding a rapt perfume.
And then this marvel fell
That I would dwell upon:
A bird--nay, rather say an airy sprite
Compact of color, light,
And a most ravishing power of flight,
Darted from nowhere, somewhere,
And alighted there,
And sat at gaze a moment or twain,
And then was off again.
Not Wordsworth’s cuckoo were a dearer guest
Unto my quest,
So insubstantial, spirit small
And fleetsome in his call;
Ah, ye know well
It was the humming-bird whereof I tell.

This mother-month of Summer holds her place
Not only by the grace
Attending on her many winsome ways,--
Her flower-gifts, her bird-lays,
Her bridal form and face,--But
by what went before and cometh after;
April tears, May blooms and laughter,
September’s blazonry, and then October
Fruit-ripe and hushed and most imperially sober
With sense of harvest dignity and worth.
Thus, memory and expectation,
Spring-gleams, fruitions of the fall,
Encircle June and give unto her station
A reverend look, a light historical;
Child, maiden, matron, she is each and all.

_Richard Burton_

[4] From “Dumb in June”

_Autumn_

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.

_Emily Dickinson_

_Overtones_

I heard a bird at break of day
Sing from the autumn trees
A song so mystical and calm,
So full of certainties,
No man, I think, could listen long
Except upon his knees.
Yet this was but a simple bird,
Alone, among dead trees.

_William Alexander Percy_

_Carouse_

Autumn, in her scarlet cloak,
Comes tumbling down the hills.
Oh, she is tipsy with her dreams
That the blue day distils;
An amber cup is in her hands
From which the wonder spills.

Now leaf and vine turn golden brown,
And purple asters shine
Along the roads where Autumn runs,
Drunken with mystic wine.
The world is one vast tapestry
Of intricate design.

Where Autumn lurches through the dusk
In raiment wildly red,
A crowd of urchins follow her,
With many a tousled head--
Chrysanthemums, like naughty boys,
Driving the crone to bed!

_Charles Hanson Towne_

_A Song in Autumn_

Autumn, Autumn, give me of your crimson,
Give it me for courage, for the year has left me meek,
And your crimson banners flying, as the sign of your defying,
Shall dare my heart’s denying the patience of the weak.

Autumn, Autumn, give me of your yellow,
Give it unto me for hope--the hope I could not hold;
For where your gold is burning I feel the dream returning,
The darling pain of yearning whose passing left me old.

Autumn, Autumn, take me to your heart so,
The bold heart, the singing heart whose strength shall make me strong;
Send my healed life faring in colors of your wearing,
Your gold and crimson bearing, against a grief too long.

_Theodosia Garrison_

_An Autumn Garden_

My tent stands in a garden
Of aster and golden-rod,
Tilled by the rain and the sunshine,
And sown by the hand of God,--
An old New England pasture
Abandoned to peace and time,
And by the magic of beauty
Reclaimed to the sublime.

About it are golden woodlands
Of tulip and hickory;
On the open ridge behind it
You may mount to a glimpse of sea,--
The far-off, blue, Homeric
Rim of the world’s great shield,
A border of boundless glamour
For the soul’s familiar field.

In purple and gray-wrought lichen
The boulders lie in the sun;
Along its grassy footpath
The white-tailed rabbits run.
The crickets work and chirrup
Through the still afternoon;
And the owl calls at twilight
Under the frosty moon.

The odorous wild grape clambers
Over the tumbling wall,
And through the autumnal quiet
The chestnuts open and fall.
Sharing Time’s freshness and fragrance,
Part of the earth’s great soul,
Here man’s spirit may ripen
To wisdom serene and whole.

Shall we not grow with the asters?--
Never reluctant nor sad,
Not counting the cost of being,
Living to dare and be glad.
Shall we not lift with the crickets
A chorus of ready cheer,
Braving the frost of oblivion,
Quick to be happy here?

The deep red cones of the sumach
And the woodbine’s crimson sprays
Have bannered the common roadside
For the pageant of passing days.
These are the oracles Nature
Fills with her holy breath,
Giving them glory of color,
Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlight
A spirit seems to brood
On the beauty and worth of being,
In tranquil, instinctive mood;
And the heart, athrob with gladness
Such as the wise earth knows,
Wells with a full thanksgiving
For the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurture
Of the teeming primordial ground,
For the splendid gospel of color,
The rapt revelations of sound;
For the morning-blue above us
And the rusted gold of the fern,
For the chickadee’s call to valor
Bidding the faint-heart turn;

For fire and running water,
Snowfall and summer rain;
For sunsets and quiet meadows,
The fruit and the standing grain;
For the solemn hour of moonrise
Over the crest of trees,
When the mellow lights are kindled
In the lamps of the centuries.

For those who wrought aforetime,
Led by the mystic strain
To strive for the larger freedom,
And live for the greater gain;
For plenty and peace and playtime,
The homely goods of earth,
And for rare immaterial treasures
Accounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friendship,
Where beneficent truth is supreme,
Those everlasting cities
Built on the hills of dream;
For all things growing and goodly
That foster this life, and breed
The immortal flower of wisdom
Out of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spirit
That cannot rest nor bide
In stale and sterile convenience,
Nor safety proven and tried,
But still inspired and driven,
Must seek what better may be,
And up from the loveliest garden
Must climb for a glimpse of sea.

_Bliss Carman_

_September_

The wind comes up across the hill, the wind goes laughing by.
It’s time to put your bonnet on, and let your stitching lie;
It’s time to take your basket up, and follow on with me,
Along the road and up the hill, strange countries for to see.

For oh, the fields are golden now, the sun is sweet as wine,
The lake lies blue beneath us, and the leaves are thick and fine;
The fluffy clouds are drifting by, the winds are all a-blow;
The geese are flying south before the vanguards of the snow.

Come out, come out across the hills! The golden blossoms call,
September lifts her trumpet to her lips, and comrades all,
But hearken to the ringing cry she sends from hill to hill--
The scarlet leaves come fluttering down, the asters all are still.

Come out, come out, and leave your seam, and put your spinning by!
The sweet September calls us before the flowers die.
The shimmering hills are free to us, the hours are golden sweet.
Come out, dear love, and find my heart the pathway for your feet!

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_Days Like These_

I like the tangled brakes and briers,
The hazy smoke of forest fires;

The misty hills’ soft robe of brown,
The ravished fields’ regretful frown:

The wrinkled road’s unconscious snare,
The free, unbreathed and fragrant air.

I like the wide, unworried sky,
The resting wind’s contented sigh;

The rustle of the vagrant leaves,
The whisper in the standing sheaves;

The birds’ lament for summer lost,
The stinging challenge of the frost.

The sturdy life of stalwart trees
Thrills in my veins on days like these!

_Ella Elizabeth Egbert_

_Indian Summer_

These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June--
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!

_Emily Dickinson_

_The Deserted Pasture_

I love the stony pasture
That no one else will have.
The old gray rocks so friendly seen,
So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation
It watches through the year,
Seeing the frosty stars arise,
The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind,
Its choristers the birds,
And there are secrets in its heart
Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures
That play about its walls,
Though long ago its milking herds
Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there,
For buttercups in May,
Or nuts in autumn, where it lies
Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given
To making good increase,
And now its soul is turned again
To beauty and to peace.

There in the early springtime
The violets are blue,
And adder-tongues in coats of gold
Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster
Are crowded on its floors,
When marching summer halts to praise
The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And there October passes
In gorgeous livery,--
In purple ash, and crimson oak,
And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter
Their bugle blasts begin,
The snowy hosts of heaven arrive
And pitch their tents therein.

_Bliss Carman_

_The Coming of Dawn_

Midnight--the black, dead vast of night,
Rain dripping slow on the sod,
Fear of the future, darkness-born,
Doubt of myself and God.

A sudden flush on the face of night,
A veil from my soul withdrawn,
A bird-note thrilling the silence through.
And after that--the dawn.

_Grace Atherton Dennen_

_Alms in Autumn_

Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray,
A little flaming lantern to light me on my way?
The fairy folk have vanished from the meadow and the glen,
And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again;
Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light
To show the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.

Ash tree, ash tree, throw me, if you please,
Throw me down a slender bunch of russet-gold keys;
I fear the gates of fairyland may all be shut fast;
Give me of your magic keys that I may get past;
I’ll tie them to my girdle, that as I go along
My heart may find a comfort in their tiny tinkling song.

Holly bush, holly bush, help me in my task,
A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask;
A pocketful of berries to thread on glowing strands
(I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands);
So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright,
They’ll set the realms of fairyland a-dancing with delight.

_Rose Fyleman_

_November in England_

No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--no “t’other side the way”--No
end to any “Row”--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing ’em--
No knowing ’em!
No travelling at all--no locomotion,
No inkling of the way--no notion--
“No go”--by land or ocean--
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

_Thomas Hood_

_The Hound_

Some are sick for Spring and warm winds blowing
Over close-sheathed buds and a patch of old snow,
With the early arc-lamps delicately bowing
Across thin sunshine that hesitates to go.

But it’s not for any April promises I sicken,
Though their stammering sweetness be a plucked string;
My mind is bent toward Autumn, I am shaken
More by her denials than by all the hopes of Spring.

The curt cold days, the blue and windy weather,
The smoke of burning brushwood keener than a frost,
An orchard full of odors night is wise to gather,
The fur-collared stubble where the flower is lost.

A clear green sunset and a pale moon showing,
A sense of dawning ends, like the light in the sky.
Autumn is a hound that shrills, my heart is for her gnawing,
The quarry goes to Autumn, let Spring die.

_Babette Deutsch_

_Sky-Born Music_

_Earth’s crammed with heaven
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes...._

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

_Let Me Go Where’er I Will_

Let me go where’er I will,
I hear a sky-born music still;
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young,
From all that’s fair, from all that’s foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.
It is not only in the rose,
It is not only in the bird,
Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There alway, alway something sings.
’Tis not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cups of budding flowers,
Nor in the red-breast’s mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There alway, alway something sings.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson_

_Pippa’s Song_

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled.
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in his heaven--
All’s right with the world!

_Robert Browning_

_The Whisper Of Earth_

In the misty hollow, shyly greening branches
Soften to the South wind, bending to the rain.
From the moistened earthland flutter little whispers,
Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain.

Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses,
Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring,
Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness,
Little crying wind-sounds come before the King.

Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus,
Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone,
Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily,
God has heard the earth-cry and journeys to His throne.

_Edward J. O’Brien_

_Sunrise_

Today I saw the sun come up, like Neptune from the sea.
I saw him light a cliff with gold and wake a distant tree,
I saw him shake his shaggy head and laugh the night away
And toss unto a sleeping world another golden day.

The waves, which had been black and cold, came in with silver crests.
I saw the sunbeams gently wake the songbirds in their nests,
The slow-retreating night slipped back, and strewn on field and lawn,
On every blade of grass I saw the jewels of the dawn.

Never was monarch ushered in with such a cavalcade;
No hero bringing victory home has seen such wealth displayed.
In honor of the coming day, the humblest plant and tree
Stood on the curbstone of the world in radiant livery.

Pageants of splendor man may plan with robes of burnished gold,
On horses from Arabia may prance the knights of old;
Heralds on silver horns may blow, and kings come riding in,
But I have seen God’s pageantry--I’ve watched a day begin!

_Edgar A. Guest_

_Prayer Before Poems_

Great Author of a world, of sky, of sea;
Whose lyrics are translated by the birds,
Come close and in the stillness I may learn
To worship Thee with words.

Thou, who dost guide all groping, gifted hands
’Till they can finger every helpless string
And find the souls of violins and harps,
Aid me to sing.

Artist, who did the great originals,
And carved the tender features of a saint,
Who chose the colors for a universe,
Teach me to paint.

_Anne Blackwell Payne_

_How Miracles Abound_

How miracles abound
In each small plot of ground--
Aye, in the sky above it!
(Do you not love it,
The vast of sky a-thrill with lyric sound?)
Now comes, now goes,
The wonder of the rose;
Color or flower, and both a boon
Renewed with dawn or June.
Each day the hyacinthine twilight fills
The chalice of the hills.
Ever there’s some fresh nectary
For the knight-errant bee.
And song--ah, the blithe bounty that sheds beauty
On the stern ways of duty!
Forsooth the doctrine’s sound
That miracles abound!
E’en the green sod,
Yea, or the umbered clod,
Revealeth God!

_Clinton Scollard_

_Little Things_

There’s nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay
About the rush of faces in the town by day,
But a light tan cow in a pale green mead,
That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed.
And the soft March wind and the low March mist
Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed....
The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn,
The fragrance of a trim green village lawn,
The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play--
These things are beautiful, beautiful as day!
And I shan’t stand waiting for love or scorn
When the feast is laid for a day new-born....
Oh, better let the little things I loved when little
Return when the heart finds the great things brittle;
And better is a temple made of bark and thong
Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long.

_Orrick Johns_

_Clouds and Sky_

One time when I was sick,
And could but see
The sky above the top
Of a tall tree,

It first was coldly blue
Far past the tree.
Without a cloud, it seemed
Eternity.

But when clouds came, the sky,
(I know not how),
Was caught among the leaves--
And it was Now.

_Lancaster Pollard_

_My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold_

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man:
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man--
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

_William Wordsworth_

_The Marshes_[5]

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God:
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space ’twixt the marsh and the skies:
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.

_Sidney Lanier_

[5] Extract from “The Marshes of Glynn.”

_Song_

The birds of the air, they sing it,
Round the rim of the world they ring it;
The bees in the blossom-bell,
They tell, they tell.

No; birds in the air, none sing it,
For the rift of the dawn none ring it;
Noon bees in the blossom-bell,
None tell, none tell.

I say it over and over,--
There is none can speak for a lover;
But oh, ere the roses go,
Her heart will know!

_John Vance Cheney_

_Out-of-Doors_

What came ye out for to seek, O Maker of Words?
The color of grass in the sunshine, the music of birds;
And what shall ye do when ye find them, O Singer of Songs?
Weave a bright fabric of beauty, and give it to whom it belongs;
Weave a gay fabric of music, to lay at the feet of mankind,
All purple and gold for the sense, all golden and gray for the mind?

This came I out for to seek--the daffodil’s gold,
The magic of buds all unfolding, the treasure untold
That lies in the heart of the forest, the moss and the leaves,
The jewel of flowers in the thicket, that no eye perceives;
And these will I weave into music, these will I fashion to words,
The wind in the grass and the rushes, the dawn-song of birds.

_Ethel E. Mannin_

_The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks_

To build the trout a crystal stair;
To comb the hillside’s thick green hair;
To water jewel-weed and rushes;
To teach first notes to baby thrushes;
To flavor raspberry and apple
And make a whirling pool to dapple
With scattered gold of late October;
To urge wise laughter on the sober
And lend a dream to those who laugh;
To chant the beetle’s epitaph;
To mirror the blue dragonfly,
Frail air-plane of a slender sky;
Over the stones to lull and leap
Herding the bubbles like white sheep;
The claims of worry to deny,
And whisper sorrow into sleep!

_Grace Hazard Conkling_

_A Word With a Skylark_

If this be all, for which I’ve listened long,
Oh, spirit of the dew!
You did not sing to Shelley such a song
As Shelley sang to you.

Yet, with this ruined Old World for a nest,
Worm-eaten through and through,--
This waste of grave-dust stamped with crown and crest,--
What better could you do?

Ah me! but when the world and I were young,
There was an apple-tree,
There was a voice in the dawn that sung
The buds awake--ah me!

Oh, Lark of Europe, downward fluttering near,
Like some spent leaf at best,
You’d never sing again if you could hear
My Bluebird of the West!

_Sarah Piatt_

_The Perilous Light_

The Eternal Beauty smiled on me
From the long lily’s curved form,
She laughed in a wave of the sea,
She flashed on white wings through the storm.

In the bulb of a daffodil
She made a little joyful stir,
And the white cabin on the hill
Was my heart’s home because of Her.

Her laughter fled the eyes of pride,
Barefoot She went o’er stony land,
And ragged children, hungry-eyed,
Clung to Her skirts and held Her hand.

When storm winds shook the cabin door
And red the Atlantic sunset blazed,
The fisher folk of Mullaghmore
Into Her eyes indifferent gazed.

By lonely waves She dwells apart,
And sea gulls circling on white wings,
Crowd round the windows of Her heart,
Most dear to Her of starving things.

The ploughman, down by Knocknarea,
Was free of Her twilight abode,
In shining sea-winds, salt with spray,
She haunted every gray cross road.

Some peasants with a creel of turf
Along the wind-swept boreen came,
Her feet went flashing through the surf,
Her wings were in the sunset’s flame.

Beyond the rocks of Classiebawn,
The mackerel fishers sailing far,
Out in the vast Atlantic dawn
Found, tangled in their nets, a star.

In every spent and broken wave
The Eternal Beauty takes Her rest,
She is the Lover of the Brave,
The comrade of the perilous quest.

The Eternal Beauty wrung my heart,
Faithful is She, and true to shed
The austere glory of Art
On the scarceness of daily bread.

Men follow Her with toil and thought,
Over the heaven’s starry pride,--
The Eternal Beauty comes unsought
To the child by the roadside.

_Eva Gore-Booth_

_Folly_

The moon has made me weary
With its silver and its song.
Such ardor in so old a thing
Is wrong, all wrong.

It should be limping silently
Across the leaden sky
Or grumbling at the cloud-hills
The wind piles high.

It should be teaching little moons
The proper way to shine,
Instead of singing sonnets
To each adoring pine.

_Vivian Yeiser Laramore_

_One Blackbird_

The stars must make an awful noise
In whirling round the sky;
Yet somehow I can’t even hear
Their loudest song or sigh.

So it is wonderful to think
One blackbird can outsing
The voice of all the swarming stars
On any day in spring.

_Harold Monro_

_A Rune of Riches_

I have a golden ball,
A big, bright, shining one,
Pure gold; and it is all
Mine.--It is the sun.

I have a silver ball,
A white and glistering stone
That other people call
The moon;--my very own!

The jewel things that prick
My cushion’s soft blue cover
Are mine,--my stars, thick, thick,
Scattered the sky all over.

And everything that’s mine
Is yours, and yours, and yours,--
The shimmer and the shine!--
Let’s lock our wealth out-doors!

_Florence Converse_

_The Picture_

“There’s a pool in the ancient forest,”
The painter-poet said,
“That is violet-blue and emerald
From the face of the sky o’erhead.”

So, far in the ancient forest,
To the heart of the wood went I,
But found no pool of emerald,
No violet-blue for sky.

“There’s a pool in the ancient forest,”
Said the painter-poet still.
“That is violet-blue and emerald,
Near the breast of a rose-green hill.”

And the heart of the ancient forest
The painter-poet drew,
And painted a pool of emerald
That thrilled me through and through.

Then back to the ancient forest
I went with a strange, wild thrill,
And I found the pool of emerald,
Near the breast of a rose-green hill.

_Frederick O. Sylvester_

“_Sic Vita_”

Heart free, hand free,
Blue above, brown under,
All the world to me
Is a place of wonder.
Sun shine, moon shine,
Stars, and winds a-blowing,
All into this heart of mine
Flowing, flowing, flowing!

Mind free, step free,
Days to follow after,
Joys of life sold to me
For the price of laughter.
Girl’s love, man’s love
Love of work and duty,
Just a will of God’s to prove
Beauty, beauty, beauty!

_William Stanley Braithwaite_

_A Blackbird Suddenly_

Heaven is in my hand, and I
Touch a heart-beat of the sky,
Hearing a blackbird’s cry.

Strange, beautiful, unquiet thing,
Lone flute of God, how can you sing
Winter to spring?

You have outdistanced every voice and word,
And given my spirit wings until it stirred
Like you--a bird!

_Joseph Auslander_

_Credo_

I believe
In the whispering of the peacock-plumaged sea,
In the moonshine and the little shining star,
I believe that in all color harmony
His angels are.

I believe
In the sunshine and the message of the flowers,
In the wind-song and the sea-song and the rain--
I believe that in summer’s greening hours
God comes again.

_Vera Wheatly_

_Gospel of the Fields_

Have you ever thought, my friend,
As daily you toil and plod
In the noisy paths of man,
How still are the ways of God?

Have you ever paused in the din
Of traffic’s insistent cry
To think of the calm in the cloud,
Of the peace in your glimpse of sky?

Go out in the growing fields
That quietly yield you meat,
And let them rebuke your noise
Whose patience is still and sweet.

They toil their æons--and we
Who flutter back to their breast,
A handful of clamorous clay,
Forget their silence is best!

_Arthur Upson_

_The Welcome_

God spreads a carpet soft and green
O’er which we pass;
A thick-piled mat of jeweled sheen--
And that is Grass.

Delightful music woos the ear;
The grass is stirred
Down to the heart of every spear--
Ah, that’s a Bird.

Clouds roll before a blue immense
That stretches high
And lends the soul exalted sense--
That scroll’s a Sky.

Green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests;
Their jubilee
Extols brave Captains and their quests--
And that is Sea.

New-leaping grass, the feathery flute,
The sapphire ring,
The sea’s full-voiced, profound salute,--
Ah, this is Spring!

_Arthur Powell_

_Angels of the Spring_

We see them not--we cannot hear
The music of their wing--
Yet know we that they sojourn near,
The angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground
When the first violet grows;
Their graceful hands have just unbound
The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast,
From stain and shadow free:
That which an Angel’s love hath blest
Is meet, my love, for thee!

_Robert Stephen Hawkes_

_God’s World_

O World, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide gray skies!
Thy mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year.
My soul is all but out of me,--let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

_Edna St. Vincent Millay_

_Rain_

I never knew how words were vain
Until I strove to say
The thoughts that fell like the gray rain
Upon my heart today.

The April rain falls on the earth,
That waits a while for words,
And then becomes articulate
In buds and bees and birds.

The thoughts that rain upon my heart
Bring nothing fair to birth;
O God, I kneel before the art,
Of this great lyrist, earth.

_Kenneth Slade Alling_

_The Lark_

(_Salisbury, England_)

A close gray sky,
And poplars gray and high,
The country-side along;
The steeple bold
Across the acres old--
And then a song!

Oh, far, far, far,
As any spire or star,
Beyond the cloistered wall!
Oh, high, high, high,
A heart-throb in the sky--
Then not at all!

_Lizette Woodworth Reese_

_Farewell_

Tell them, O Sky-born, when I die
With high romance to wife,
That I went out as I had lived,
Drunk with the joy of life.

Yea, say that I went down to death
Serene and unafraid,
Still loving Song, but loving more
Life, of which Song is made!

_Harry Kemp_

_The Comfort of the Stars_

When I am overmatched by petty cares
And things of earth loom large, and look to be
Of moment, how it soothes and comforts me
To step into the night and feel the airs

Of heaven fan my cheek; and, best of all,
Gaze up into those all-uncharted seas
Where swim the stately planets: such as these
Make mortal fret seem light and temporal.

I muse on what of Life may stir among
Those spaces knowing naught of metes nor bars;
Undreamed-of dramas played in outmost stars,
And lyrics by archangels grandly sung.

I grow familiar with the solar runes
And comprehend of worlds the mystic birth;
Ringed Saturn, Mars, whose fashion apes the earth,
And Jupiter, the giant, with his moons.

Then, dizzy with the unspeakable sights above,
Rebuked by Vast on Vast, my puny heart
Is greatened for its transitory part,
My trouble merged in wonder and in love.

_Richard Burton_

_The Last Hour_

O joys of love and joys of fame,
It is not you I shall regret:
I sadden lest I should forget
The beauty woven in earth’s name.

The shout and battle of the gale,
The stillness of the sun-rising,
The sound of some deep hidden spring,
The glad sob of the filling sail,

The first green ripple of the wheat,
The rain-song of the lifted leaves,
The waking birds beneath the eaves,
The voices of the summer heat.

_Ethel Clifford_

_Wasted Hours_

There was a day I wasted long ago,
Lying upon a hillside in the sun--
An April day of wind and drifting clouds,
An idle day and all my work undone.

The little peach trees with their coral skirts
Were dancing up the hillside in the breeze;
The gray walled meadows gleamed like bits of jade
Against the crimson bloom of maple trees.

And I could smell the warmth of trodden grass,
The coolness of a freshly harrowed field;
And I could hear a bluebird’s wistful song
Of love and beauty only half revealed.

I have forgotten many April days
But one there is that comes to haunt me still--
A day of feathered trees and windy skies
And wasted hours on a sunlit hill.

_Medora Addison_

_God is at the Anvil_

God is at the anvil, beating out the sun;
Where the molten metal spills,
At His forge among the hills
He has hammered out the glory of a day that’s done.

God is at the anvil, welding golden bars;
In the scarlet-streaming flame
He is fashioning a frame
For the shimmering silver beauty of the evening stars.

_Lew Sarett_

_The End of the Trail_

_Have little care that life is brief, and less that Art is long,
Success is in the silences, though fame is in the song._

RICHARD HOVEY

_Hesperides_

Beyond the blue rim of the world,
Washed round with languid-lapsing seas,
Where the Wind’s wings were ever furled
The Ancients dreamed Hesperides.

Ship after ship each age sent forth
To find the Islands of the Blest;
The loosed winds drove them south and north,
But west they weathered, ever west.

Sky after sky they dropped behind,
Those mighty-handed, bearded men,
Till, seeking what they could not find,
They rounded upward, home again.

A desultory waif of time
Flying adventure from my mast,
’Twas thus I voyaged every clime
To come back to myself at last!

_Harry Kemp_

_Changeless_

They cannot change the hills; though they may hew
The fir-sweet slopes and cut their roadways through,
Yet will they stand, each long-loved mountain face
And smile at me from its appointed place;
And past their friendly crests the sun shall rise
To paint new pictures on the morning skies--
They cannot change the hills.

They cannot still the winds; the winds that shake
The hemlock fragrance free and sweep the lake,
The waves at dusk shall whisper to the shore
Their pebbled secrets as they did before;
The wild white clouds as in the days of old
Shall sink to rest in sunset seas of gold--
They cannot still the winds.

They cannot dim the stars; the crowding camps
That dot the dusk with closely-clustered lamps,
The jazz, the laughter, and the shrill tin blare
Of phonographs, the motor headlight’s flare--
These shall be stilled at last--the clamor cease
And leave a fir-sweet world of wave-lapped peace--
They cannot dim the stars!

_Martha Haskell Clark_

_Homesick_

O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew,
Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you,
And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleam
With a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream!

I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall,
And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall,
And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky,
While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by.

I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses’ crimson glow,
And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row,
And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil,
And butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil.

Oh, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west!
Oh, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole’s nest!
Oh, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creep
In a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep!

Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees,
With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze,
And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture bars
The white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars.

With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise,
From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyes
All the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts through
To my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew!

_Julia C. R. Dorr_

_If all the Skies_

If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once more upon them
The cooling plash of rain.

If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence,
To break the endless song.

If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.

_Henry van Dyke_

“_Gratias Ago_”

Since of earth, air and water,
The gods have made me part--
Let every human sin be mine
Except the thankless heart!
Privileged and greatly, I partake
Of sleep and death and birth;
And kneeling, drink the sacrament--
The good red wine of earth.

I shall not ask the High Gods
For aught that they can give;
They gave the greatest gift of all
When first they bade me live.
Great gift of dawn and starlight,
Of sea and grass and river;
With leave to toil and laugh and weep
And praise the Sun forever!

Be death the end or not the end,
Too richly blest am I
To seek the hill behind the hill,
The sky behind the sky.
Let the red earth that bore me
Give me her call again,
And I’ll lie still beneath her flowers
And sleep and not complain.

Let those the gods have blinded
Hold their long feud with Fate--
And clutch at toys that never yet
Could make one mean man great.
Let those that Earth has bastarded
Fret and contrive and plan--
But I will enter like an heir
The old estate of man!

_Geoffrey Howard_

_Song of Ballyshannon_

Take me home to Ballyshannon, for there’s music in the word;
The name o’ Ballyshannon is the sweetest ever heard!
The little hills are lying fair and green behind the town,
And the skies of Ballyshannon, why, they’re never known to frown.
Take me back and let me hearken to the plaintive Irish wind;
Take me back to Ballyshannon, where the neighbors’ hearts are kind.

I will wander in the moonlight out upon the ragged moor,
With the flaming gorse and heather,--I’ll not find it mean or poor.
In the glen with lads a-dancing, I will pass the night away;
For the nights in Ballyshannon, they are sweeter than the day.
Take me back to Ballyshannon, there’s a voice that calls to me;
For my heart’s in Ballyshannon on the other side the sea.

I came to Ballyshannon on a wet and mournful night,
And all the way was darkness, with never a ray of light;
The mist was waving round me and the winds were blowing free
When I came to Ballyshannon, sure my heart was whole in me.

I went from Ballyshannon when the sun was rolling high,
And every rowan bud was glad and looked me in the eye;
The clouds were white above me and the winds played in the tree,
Yet I went from Ballyshannon bearing little heart in me.

Sure my heart was crushed and broken; there were kisses on my mouth;
There were cruel words upon me like a summer’s parching drouth.
Woman’s wiles are full of mystery, they’re inconstant as the sea;
Just for sport in Ballyshannon, someone stole the heart of me.

The bells of Ballyshannon, I hear them on the wind,
And every care and sorrow my heart leaves far behind;
I can live and thrive a season upon an alien shore,
But I’m wanting Ballyshannon forever all the more;
And when light o’ life has left me and I’m like an empty byre,
Lay my bones in Ballyshannon, take me back to heart’s desire,
Where I’ll hear the bells a-ringing, folded arms beneath the sod,
For the bells of Ballyshannon, they will ring me home to God.

_Jeanne Robert Foster_

_A Song of the Road_

I lift my cap to Beauty,
I lift my cap to Love;
I bow before my Duty,
And know that God’s above!
My heart through shining arches
Of leaf and blossom goes;
My soul, triumphant, marches
Through life to life’s repose.
And I, through all this glory,
Nor know, nor fear my fate,--
The great things are so simple,
The simple are so great!

_Fred G. Bowles_

_After Sunset_

I have an understanding with the hills
At evening when the slanted radiance fills
Their hollows, and the great winds let them be,
And they are quiet and look down at me.
Oh, then I see the patience in their eyes
Out of the centuries that made them wise.
They lend me hoarded memory and I learn
Their thoughts of granite and their whims of fern,
And why a dream of forests must endure
Though every tree be slain: and how the pure,
Invisible beauty has a word so brief
A flower can say it or a shaken leaf,
But few may ever snare it in a song,
Though for the quest a life is not too long.
When the blue hills grow tender, when they pull
The twilight close with gesture beautiful,
And shadows are their garments, and the air
Deepens, and the wild veery is at prayer,--
Their arms are strong around me; and I know
That somehow I shall follow when you go
To the still land beyond the evening star,
Where everlasting hills and valleys are:
And silence may not hurt us any more,
And terror shall be past, and grief, and war.

_Grace Hazard Conkling_

_The Wanderer_

The ships are lying in the bay,
The gulls are swinging round their spars;
My soul as eagerly as they
Desires the margin of the stars.

So much do I love wandering,
So much I love the sea and sky,
That it will be a piteous thing
In one small grave to lie.

_Zoe Akins_

_The Trumpet of the Dawn_

Above the crestward-climbing pines,
Above the dewy slopes of lawn,
Above the copse’s coil of vines,
I have gone up to meet the dawn.

I have grown weary of the night
That from day’s gold mine eye debars,--
Of seeing up the purple height
Troop the processional of stars.

I yearn to mark the shattering beam
Backward the gates of darkness throw;
I long to hear across my dream
The wakening trump of morning blow.

Hark! ’tis the first bird-note!--and mark,
Flushing the east, a crimson ray!--
Soul, from the girdling wastes of dark
Go thou, too, up to meet the day!

_Clinton Scollard_

_Shared_

I said it in the meadow-path,
I say it on the mountain-stairs,--
The best things any mortal hath
Are those which every mortal shares.

The air we breathe, the sky, the breeze,
The light without us and within,--Life,
with its unlocked treasuries,--
God’s riches,--are for all to win.

The grass is softer to my tread
For rest it yields unnumbered feet;
Sweeter to me the wild-rose red,
Because she makes the whole world sweet.

* * * * *

And up the radiant, peopled way,
That opens into worlds unknown,
It will be life’s delight to say,
“Heaven is not Heaven for me alone.”

_Lucy Larcom_

_Up-Hill_

Does the road wind-up all the way?
_Yes, to the very end._
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
_From morn to night, my friend._

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin?
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
_You cannot miss that inn._

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
_Those who have gone before._
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
_They will not keep you standing at that door._

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
_Of labor you shall find the sum._
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
_Yea, beds for all who come._

_Christina Rossetti_

_The Epitaph_

Write on my grave when I am dead,
Whatever road I trod
That I admired and honorèd
The wondrous works of God.

That all the days and years I had,
The greatest and the least,
Each day with grateful heart and glad
I sat me to a feast.

That not alone for body’s meat
Which takes the lowest place
I gave Him grace when I did eat
And with a shining face.

But for the spirit filled and fed
That else must waste and die,
With sun and stars replenishèd
And dew and evening sky.

The beauty of the hills and seas
Brimmed that immortal cup;
And when I went by fields and trees
My heart was lifted up.

Lap me in the green grass and write
Upon the daisied sod
That still I praised with all my might
The wondrous works of God.

_Katharine Tynan_

_Index of Authors_

Abbey, Henry, 69
Addison, Medora, 253
Akins, Zoe, 24
Alling, Kenneth Slade, 250
Allingham, William, 44
Auslander, Joseph, 124, 246

Baker, Karl Wilson, 71
Banning, Kendall, 162
Bates, Katherine Lee, 172
Birchall, Sara Hamilton, 55, 57, 139, 144, 146, 156, 165, 175, 223
Blanden, Charles G., 42
Bowles, Fred G., 263
Braithwaite, William Stanley, 245
Brotherton, Alice Williams, 49
Brown, Thomas E., 41
Browning, Elizabeth, 53
Browning, Robert, 94, 212, 233
Burnet, Dana, 157
Burton, Richard, 95, 211, 216, 251
Byron, Lord, 100

Carman, Bliss, 17, 49, 53, 65, 75, 119, 136, 168, 171, 173, 176, 186,
200, 220, 226
Chalmers, Stephens, 140
Cheney, John Vance, 41, 239
Clark, Martha Haskell, 91, 104, 161, 257
Clifford, Ethel, 252
Cole, Samuel Valentine, 67
Cone, Helen Gray, 51, 56
Conkling, Grace Hazard, 240, 263
Converse, Florence, 244
Craik, Dina Mulock, 42
Crane, Jr. L. Burton, 28
Cunningham, Allan, 87

Davis, Fannie Stearns, 120, 158
Davies, Mary Carolyn, 163
Davies, William H., 76, 112
Dean, Harry W., 171
Dennen, Grace Atherton, 227
Deutsch, Babette, 229
Dickinson, Emily, 54, 210, 218, 225
Dorr, Julia C. R., 258
Driscoll, Louise, 5, 40, 189

Egbert, Ella Elizabeth, 224
Elliston, George, 210
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 52, 191, 233

Fenton, Cora D., 31
Foster, Jeanne Robert, 261
Fox-Smith, C., 133, 147
Fyleman, Rose, 228

Gale, Norman, 35, 193
Galsworthy, John, 110
Garland, Hamlin, 4, 109
Garrison, Theodosia, 15, 18, 114, 125, 175, 195, 219
Gilman, Charlotte Perkins, 61
Gore-Booth, Eva, 78, 241
Gould, Gerald, 155
Grover, Edwin Osgood, 135, 185
Guest, Edgar A., 10, 16, 34, 150, 155, 169, 234
Guiterman, Arthur, 121

Hagedorn, Hermann, 143
Hardy, Thomas, 184
Hare, Amory, 23
Hawkes, Robert Stephen, 249
Higginson, Ella, 203
Hood, Thomas, 228
Hopper, Nora, 81
Hovey, Richard, 12, 31, 79, 92, 122, 196
Howard, Geoffrey, 260
Hoyt, Helen, 132

Jennings, Leslie Nelson, 8
Johns, Orrick, 236

Kauffman, Ruth Wright, 165
Kemp, Harry, 77, 115, 134, 199, 213, 251, 257
Kenyon, Theda, 50
Ketchum, Arthur, 111, 131
King, Georgiana Goddard, 19
Kipling, Rudyard, 166
Knowles, Frederic Lawrence, 102

Lanier, Sidney, 66, 238
Laramore, Vivian Yeiser, 243
Larcom, Lucy, 44, 71, 160, 265
Laurence, Ray, 48
Le Gallienne, Richard, 111
Loveman, Robert, 209
Lowell, James Russell, 45

Mackay, Isabel Ecclestine, 19
Macleod, Fiona, 88
McGiffert, Gertrude Huntington, 27
McGroarty, John Steven, 32, 99
McLeod, Irene Ruthford, 126
McQuilland, Louis J., 25
Mannin, Ethel E., 80, 150, 178, 239
Markham, Edwin, 57
Masefield, John, 3, 75
Mason, Caroline Atherton, 112
Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 125, 145, 249
Monro, Harold, 243
Montgomery, James Stuart, 22, 82, 104
Moreland, John Richard, 193
Morley, Christopher, 68

Norton, Eleanour, 29

O’Brien, Edward J., 234
O’Reilly, John Boyle, 7

Payne, Anne Blackwell, 235
Peace, Dorothy, 103
Percy, William Alexander, 218
Piatt, Sarah, 241
Pollard, Lancaster, 144, 186, 192, 237
Powell, Arthur, 248
Procter, Bryan Waller, 89

Randolph, Thomas, 30
Reese, Lizette Woodworth, 194, 250
Rice, Cale Young, 86, 115, 188, 196
Rittenhouse, Jessie B., 72
Roberts, Charles G. D., 39, 89
Robinson, Corinne Roosevelt, 9
Rossetti, Christina, 110, 266
Runcie, John, 85
Russell, Maud, 29

Sarett, Lew, 253
Scollard Clinton, 43, 149, 183, 190, 236, 265
Service, Robert W., 13
Shephard, Odell, 3
Slender, Pauline, 164
Smith, Ada, 20
Smith, May Riley, 142, 213
Speyer, Leonora, 62, 215
Stuart, Keith, 82
Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 97
Sylvester, Frederick O., 245

Tabb, John B., 55
Tennyson, Alfred, 205, 212
Thorley, Wilfrid C., 47
Timrod, Henry, 109, 206
Tinckom-Fernandez, W. G., 24, 177
Towne, Charles Hanson, 6, 195, 219
Trench, Herbert, 62
Tynan, Katherine, 96, 183, 267

Unknown, 63, 100
Upson, Arthur 247

van Dyke, Henry, 70, 259
Vinal, Harold, 84

Waterman, Nixon, 148
Watson, William, 208
Welby, Amelia C., 103
Wetherald, Ethelwyn, 64
Wheatly, Vera, 247
Whitman, Walt, 9, 47, 84
Widdemer, Margaret, 79, 113
Williams, Oscar, 85
Wolfe, Humbert, 48, 54
Wordsworth, William, 21, 94, 238

_Index to Titles_

A.B.C.’s in Green _Leonora Speyer_, 62
Afoot _Charles G. D. Roberts_, 39
Afoot _C. Fox-Smith_, 133
Afoot and Light-Hearted _Walt Whitman_, 9
Afternoon on a Hill _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 125
After Sunset _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 240
Again Among the Hills _Richard Hovey_, 122
“A la Belle Étoile” _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 144
Alms in Autumn _Rose Fyleman_, 228
An Autumn Garden _Bliss Carman_, 220
Angels of the Spring _Robert Stephen Hawkes_, 249
Answer, The _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 57
April _Emily Dickinson_, 210
April _John Vance Cheney_, 41
April _Theodosia Garrison_, 195
April, April _William Watson_, 208
April’s Coming _Lancaster Pollard_, 192
April Morning _George Elliston_, 210
April Music _Clinton Scollard_, 183
April Rain _Robert Loveman_, 209
April Weather _Lizette Woodworth Reese_, 194
April Weather _Bliss Carman_, 186
As the Tide Comes In _Cale Young Rice_, 86
Autumn _Emily Dickinson_, 218

Beloved Vagabond, The _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_, 177
Best Road of All, The _Charles Hanson Towne_, 6
Black Ashes _Martha Haskell Clark_, 161
Blackbird, The _Humbert Wolfe_, 54
Blackbird Suddenly, A _Joseph Auslander_, 246
Blind _Harry Kemp_, 199
Buttercups _Wilfrid C. Thorley_, 47