The old eternal spring once more Comes back the sad eternal way, With tender rosy light before The going-out of day. The great white moon across my doo…

My tent stands in a garden Of aster and golden-rod, Tilled by the rain and the sunshin… And sown by the hand of God, - An old New England pasture

HERE by the gray north sea, In the wintry heart of the wild, Comes the old dream of thee, Guendolen, mistress and child. The heart of the forest grieves

AT the end of the road through th… I see the great moon rise. The fields are flooded with shine, And my soul with surmise. What if that mystic orb

OVER the wintry threshold Who comes with joy to-day, So frail, yet so enduring, To triumph o’er dismay? Ah, quick her tears are springing,

There is fog upon the river, there… You can hear the groping ferries a… From the Battery to Harlem there’… Through looming granite canyons of… Are you sick of phones and tickers…

IN the Garden of Eden, planted b… There were goodly trees in the spr… Trees of beauty and height and gra… To stand in splendor before His f… Apple and hickory, ash and pear,

I know a vale where I would go on… When June comes back and all the… Is glad with summer. Deep in shad… A mighty cleft between the bosomin… A cool dim gateway to the mountain…

ABOVE the weary waiting world, Asleep in chill despair, There breaks a sound of joyous bel… Upon the frosted air. And o’er the humblest rooftree, lo…

Make me over, Mother April, When the sap beings to stir! When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers, And thy great heart beats and quiv…

O MY dear, the world to-day Is more lovely than a dream! Magic hints from far away Haunt the woodland, and the stream Murmurs in his rocky bed

WHEN morning is high o’er the hi… On river and stream and lake, Wherever a young breeze whispers, The sun-clad dancers wake. One after one up-springing,

First all the host of Raphael In liveries of gold, Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm The spinning spheres are rolled,– The Seraphs of the morning calm

For The Brthday Of James Whitco… LOCKERBIE STREET is a littl… Just one block long; But the days go there with a magic… The whole year long.

I SAID to Life, ‘How comes it, With all this wealth in store, Of beauty, joy, and knowledge, Thy cry is still for more? ’Count all the years of striving