Dormered and verandaed, cool, Locust-girdled, on the hill; Stained with weather—wear, and dul… Streak’d with lichens; every sill Thresholding the beautiful;

Small twilight singer Of dew and mist: thou ghost-gray,… Of dusk’s dim glimmer, How cool thy note sounds; how thy… Vibrate, soft-sighing,

What words of mine can tell the sp… Of garden ways I know so well?- The path that takes me in the spri… Past quince-trees where the bluebi… And peonies are blossoming,

What will you send her, What will you tell her, That shall unbend her, That shall compel her? Love, that shall fold her

Sleep is a spirit, who beside us s… Or through our frames like some di… From out her form a pearly light i… As from a lily, in a lily-bed, A firefly’s gleam. Her face is pa…

I HAD forgot how, in my day The Sabine fields around me lay In amaranth and asphodel, With many a cold Bandusian well Bright-bubbling by the mountain-wa…

She came through shade and shine, By scarlet trumpetvine And fragrant buttonbush, That heaped the wayside hush And oh!

I remember, when a child, How within the April wild Once I walked with Mystery In the groves of Arcady…. Through the boughs, before, behind…

Pessimist There is never a thing we dream or… But was dreamed and done in the ag… Everything’s old; there is nothing… And so it will be while the world…

So we had come at last, my soul an… Into that land of shadowy plain an… On which the dawn seemed ever abou… On which the day seemed ever about… Long had we sought fulfillment of…

Take Heart Take heart again. Joy may be lost… It is not always Spring. And even now from some far Summer… Hither the birds may wing.

Here is a tale for all who wish to… There was a thief who, in his cut-… Was hailed as chief; he had a way… Persuasion, masked, behind a weapo… That made it cockrow with each goo…

Were I an artist, Lydia, I Would paint you as you merit, Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry… Not in the flesh, but spirit. The canvas I would paint you on

When the poppies, with their shiel… Sentinel Forest and the harvest fields, In the bell Of a blossom, fair to see,

‘He cometh not,’ she said.’ —MARIANA It will not be to-day and yet I think and dream it will; and let The slow uncertainty devise