Under the boughs of spring She swung in the old rope-swing. Her cheeks, with their happy blood… Were pink as the apple-bud. Her eyes, with their deep delight,

March set heel upon the flowers, Trod and trampled them for hours: But when April’s bugles rang, Up their starry legions sprang, Radiant in the sun-shot showers.

High on a throne of noisome ooze a… ‘Mid rotting trees of bayou and la… Ghastly she sits beneath the skele… A tawny horror coiling at her feet Fever, whose eyes keep watching, s…

Here is a tale for workmen and the… There was a torrent once that down… Flashed its resistless way; a foam… Basaltic-built, ‘twixt cataract-he… Down from its eagle eyrie nearer,…

O heart,-that beat the bird’s blit… The blithe bird’s strain, and unde… The song it sang to leaf and bud,- What dost thou in the wood? O soul,-that kept the brook’s glad…

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…

The mellow smell of hollyhocks And marigolds and pinks and phlox Blends with the homely garden scen… Of onions, silvering into rods; Of peppers, scarlet with their pod…

UPON the iron crags of War I he… In battle speak while at their fee… In gulfs of human waters, A voice, intoning, ‘Where is God?… And to my heart, in doubt, I said…

The barberry burns, the rose-hip c… And haw and sumach hedge the hill… Down which the road winds, worn of… Only the blueberry-picker plods no… Here once the quarry-driver, brown…

Here is a tale for poets and for p… There was a bagpipe once, that whe… And droned vile discords, notes th… Nasal and harsh, outbraying all th… And then the thing assumed another…

SHUT it out of the heart—this gr… O Love, with the years grown old… And let in joy that life is brief, And give God thanks for the end o… The bond of the flesh is transitor…

This is the path he used to take, That ended at a rose-porched door: He takes it now for oldtime’s sake… And love of yore. The blue mertensia, by the stone,

Those unrequited in their love who… Have never drained life’s chief il…

Oh, Mignon’s mouth is like a rose… A red, red rose, that half uncurls Sweet petals o’er a crimson bee: Or like a shell, that, opening, sh… Within its rosy curve white pearls…

Whether it be that we in letters t… The pure exactness of a wood bird’… And name it song; or with the brus… The high perfection of a wildflowe… Or mold in difficult marble all th…