THE tossing spray of Cocheco’s f… Hardened to ice on its rocky wall, As through Dover town in the chil… Three women passed, at the cart-ta… Bared to the waist, for the north…

No bird-song floated down the hill… The tangled bank below was still; No rustle from the birchen stem, No ripple from the water’s hem. The dusk of twilight round us grew…

Where the Great Lake’s sunny smil… Dimple round its hundred isles, And the mountain’s granite ledge Cleaves the water like a wedge, Ringed about with smooth, gray sto…

AT THE UNVEILING OF HI… Among their graven shapes to whom Thy civic wreaths belong, O city of his love, make room For one whose gift was song.

Not always as the whirlwind’s rush On Horeb’s mount of fear, Not always as the burning bush To Midian’s shepherd seer, Nor as the awful voice which came

Dark the halls, and cold the feast… Gone the bridemaids, gone the prie… All is over, all is done, Twain of yesterday are one! Blooming girl and manhood gray,

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands… The vines of the gourd and the ric… And the rock and the tree and the… With broad leaves all greenness an… Like that which o’er Nineveh’s pr…

Andrew Rykman’s dead and gone; You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon Read his name and date. Trust is truer than our fears

BEAMS of noon, like burning lanc… As she stands before her lover, wi… Dark, but comely, like the maiden… Scarcely has the toil of task-fiel… He, the strong one and the manly,…

The firmament breaks up. In black… Light after light goes out. One e… Luridly glaring through the smoke… As in the dream of the Apocalypse… Drags others down. Let us not wea…

In the old days (a custom laid asi… With breeches and cocked hats) the… Their wisest men to make the publi… And so, from a brown homestead, wh… Drinks the small tribute of the M…

WHERE are we going? where are we… Where are we going, Rubee? Lord of peoples, lord of lands, Look across these shining sands, Through the furnace of the noon,

Behind us at our evening meal The gray bird ate his fill, Swung downward by a single claw, And wiped his hooked bill. He shook his wings and crimson tai…

A BLUSH as of roses Where rose never grew! Great drops on the bunch-grass, But not of the dew! A taint in the sweet air

Around Sebago’s lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to brea… The mirror which its waters make. The solemn pines along its shore, The firs which hang its gray rocks…