The Voice of a Man WHAT of the Night, O Watcher? The Voice of a Woman Yea, what of it? The Watcher

I know a pool, whose crystalline r… Sleeps under walls of granite, whe… Leans looking at its image, line f… Repeated with the sumach and wild-… That redden on the rocks; where, a…

Woman’s a star, a rose; Man but a moth, a bee: High now as heaven she glows, Low now as earth and sea: Star of the world and rose,

Oh, I am going home again, Back to the old house in the lane, And mother! who still sits and sew… With cheeks, each one, a winter ro… A-watching for her boy, you know,

There are moments when, as mission… God reveals to us strange visions; When, within their separate statio… We may see the Centuries, Like revolving constellations

Once when the park Was very dark I slipped out and went walking; And heard the trees To the summer breeze,

Here is a tale for gossips and cha… There lived a woman once, a straig… Whose only love was slander. Noth… Escaped her vulture eye. Like som… Her course of life pointed to Hea…

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.

That day we wandered ‘mid the hill… Clouds are not lonelier,'€”the for… In emerald darkness 'round us. Ma… And gnarly root, gray-mossed, made… And many a bird the glimmering lig…

All the roses now are gone, All their glories shed: Here’s a rose that grows not wan, Rose of love to wear upon Your fair breast instead.

I am a part of all you see In Nature; part of all you feel: I am the impact of the bee Upon the blossom; in the tree I am the sap,-that shall reveal

Loss molds our lives in many ways, And fills our souls with guesses; Upon our hearts sad hands it lays Like some grave priest that blesse… Far better than the love we win,

All the poppies in their beds Nodding crumpled crimson heads; And the larkspurs, in whose ears Twilight hangs, like twinkling tea… Sleepy jewels of the rain;

A sense of sadness in the golden a… A pensiveness, that has no part in… As if the Season, by some woodlan… Braiding the early blossoms in her… Seeing her loveliness reflected th…

The moth and beetle wing about The garden ways of other days; Above the hills, a fiery shout Of gold, the day dies slowly out, Like some wild blast a huntsman bl…