NOW the lilac tree’s in bud, And the morning birds are loud. Now a stirring in the blood Moves the heart of every crowd. Word has gone abroad somewhere

‘DUSTMAN, dustman!’ Through the deserted square he cri… And babies put their rosy fists Into their eyes. There’s nothing out of No-man’s-l…

ONCE in the Workshop, ages ago, The clay was wet and the fire was… And He who was bent on fashioning… Moulded a shape from a clod, And put the loyal heart therein;

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

Where are the ships I used to kno… That came to port on the Fundy ti… Half a century ago, In beauty and stately pride? In they would come past the beacon…

THIS is a holy refuge, The garden of Saint Rose, A fragrant altar to that peace The world no longer knows. Below a solemn hillside,

When all the stars are sown Across the night-blue space, With the immense unknown, In silence face to face. We stand in speechless awe

IN the wondrous star-sown night, In the first sweet warmth of sprin… I lie awake and listen To hear the glad earth sing. I hear the brook in the wood

AH, Pierrot, Where is thy Columbine? What vandal could untwine That gay rose-rope of thine, And spill thy joy like wine,

IN a far Eastern country It happened long of yore, Where a lone and level sunrise Flushes the desert floor, That three kings sat together

LO, now, the journeying sun, Another day’s march done, Kindles his campfire at the edge o… And in the twilight pale Above his crimson trail,

NOW the little rivers go Muffled safely under snow, And the winding meadow streams Murmur in their wintry dreams, While a tinkling music wells

There is something in the autumn t… Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and… The scarlet of the maples can shak…

A Threnody for Robert Louis Stev… COLD, the dull cold! What ails t… And takes the heart out of the day… What makes the morning look so mea… The Common so forlorn and gray?

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