So lone I stood, the very trees s… In conference with themselves.—In… Seemed everything;—the summer sple… The sight,—magnificence! A babe’s life might not lighter fa…

I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine,

To William Morris Pierson [1868-1870] Of the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, The old school-day romances

We got up a Christmas-doin’s Last Christmas Eve— Kindo’ dimonstration 'At I railly believe Give more satisfaction—

O the old trundle-bed where I sle… What canopied king might not covet… The glory and peace of that slumbe… Like a long, gracious rest in the… The quaint, homely couch, hidden c…

When Old Folks they wuz young lik… An’ little as you an’ me Them wuz the best times ever wuz Er ever goin’ to be!

Like a drift of faded blossoms Caught in a slanting rain, His fingers glimpsed down the stri… In a tremulous refrain: Patter and tinkle, and drip and dr…

Little brook! Little brook! You have such a happy look— Such a very merry manner, as you s… curve and crook— And your ripples, one and one,

Friends, my heart is half aweary Of its happiness to-night: Though your songs are gay and chee… And your spirits feather-light, There’s a ghostly music haunting

While with Ambition’s hectic flam… He wastes the midnight oil, And dreams, high-throned on height… To rest him from his toil,— Death’s Angel, like a vast eclips…

When Dicky was sick In the night, and the clock, As he listened, said ‘Tick– Atty—tick-atty—tock!’ He said that _it_ said,

The midnight is not more bewilderi… To her drowsed eyes, than to her e… Of dim, sweet singing voices, inte… With purl of flute and subtle twan… Strained through the lattice, wher…

Where are they?—the friends of my… The clear, laughing eyes looking b… And the warm, chubby fingers my pa… As when we raced over Pink pastures of clover,

Nobody on the old farm here but M… Except, of course, the extry he’p… And then, I want to say to you, w… As you’d admit, ef you’d a-seen th… A better quarter-section, ner a ri…

Season of snows, and season of flo… Seasons of loss and gain!— Since grief and joy must alike be… Why do we still complain? Ever our failing, from sun to sun,