Through leafy windows of the trees The full moon shows a wrinkled fac… And, trailing dim her draperies Of mist from place to place, The Twilight leads the breeze.

There is no Paradise like that wh… Deep in the heavens of her azure e… There is no Eden here on Earth th… Like that which smiles rich in her…

It’s out and away at break of day, To frolic and run in the sun-sweet… It’s up and out with a laugh and s… Let the old world know that a boy’… It’s ho for the creek that the min…

Over the hills, as the pewee flies… Under the blue of the Southern sk… Over the hills, where the red-bird… Like a scarlet blossom, or sits an… Under the shadow of rock and tree,

It seemed the listening forest hel… Before some vague and unapparent f… Of fear, approaching with the wing… On the impending storm. Above the hills, big, bellying clo…

The old gate clicks, and down the… Between clove-pink and hollyhock, Still young of face though gray of… Among her garden’s flowers she goe… At evening’s close,

On the barren hillside lone he sat… On his head he wore a tattered hat… In his hand he bore a crooked staf… Never heard I laughter like his l… On the barren hillside, thistle-ho…

There was moonlight in the garden… There was scent of pink and peony… When adown the pathway whitely, wh… She came stepping, oh, so lightly, To the old gate made of pickets.

First I asked the honeybee, Busy in the balmy bowers; Saying, ‘Sweetheart, tell it me: Have you seen her, honeybee? She is cousin to the flowers

Not into these dark cities, These sordid marts and streets, That the sun in his rising pities, And the moon with sorrow greets, Does she, with her dreams and flow…

Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring… All its wide windows overflowing h… And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day.

Beyond lost seas of summer she Dwelt on an island of the sea, Last scion of that dynasty, Queen of a race forgotten long.- With eyes of light and lips of son…

Where rise the brakes of bramble t… Wrapped with the trailing rose; Through cane where waters ramble,… Where deep the sword-grass grows, Who knows?

When my mother is n’t here, And I just won’t go to bed, And it’s cold outside and near Christmas; and the kitchen-shed ‘S covered thick with frost and sn…