The locust builds its are of sound And tops it with a spire; The roadside leaves pant to the gr… With dust from hoof and tire. The insects, day and night, make d…

Amber and emerald, cairngorm and c… Stream through the autumn woods, s… Ways where the wahoo-bush brighten… And where the aster-stalk lifts it… Ways where the brier burns; poplar…

IN her vast church of glimmering… Gray-stoled from feet to chin, Her dark locks beaded with the dew… The nun-like dawn comes in: At once the hills put on their spe…

When the hornet hangs in the holly… And the brown bee drones i’ the ro… And the west is a red-streaked fou… And summer is near its close– It’s oh, for the gate and the locu…

With rod and line I took my way That led me through the gossip tre… Where all the forest was asway With hurry of the running breeze. I took my hat off to a flower

Red-Winding from the sleepy town, One takes the lone, forgotten lane Straight through the hills. A bru… Bubbles in thorn-flowers, sweet wi… Where breezes bend the gleaming gr…

Secluded, solitary on some underbo… Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmer… Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply w… The slow toadstool comes bulging,… Through loosening loam; or how, ag…

It’s out and away at break of day, To frolic and run in the sun-sweet… It’s up and out with a laugh and s… Let the old world know that a boy’… It’s ho for the creek that the min…

In dim samite was she bedight, And on her hair a hoop of gold, Like fox-fire in the tawn moonligh… Was glimmering cold. With soft gray eyes she gloomed an…

Why do I love you, who have never… My heart encouragement or any caus… Is it because, as earth is held of… Your soul holds mine by some myste… Perhaps, unseen of me, within your…

THERE is a smell of roses in the… Tea-roses, dead of bloom; An invalid, she sits there in the… And contemplates her doom. The pattern of the paper, and the…

The little tents the wildflowers r… Are tabernacles where Love prays And Beauty preaches all the days. I walk the woodland through and th… And everywhere I see their blue

The dawn is a warp of fever, The eve is a woof of fire; And the month is a singing weaver Weaving a red desire. With stars Dawn dices with Even

Sunflowers wither and lilies die, Poppies are pods of seeds; The first red leaves on the pathwa… Like blood of a heart that bleeds. Weary alway will it be to-day,

A LITTLE child, one night, awok… ‘Oh, help me, father! there is som… Before me! help me!’ Hurrying to… I answered, ‘I am here. You dream… ‘A dream?—’ he questioned. ‘Oh, I…