Autumn and Winter, Summer and Spring— Hath Time no other song to sing? Weary we grow of the changeless tu… June—December,

All the flowers cannot weave A garland worthy of your hair, Not a bird in the four winds Can sing of you that is so fair. Only the spheres can sing of you;

(TO GRANT AND NELLIE ALL… Is it the Spring? Or are the birds all wrong That play on flute and viol, A thousand strong,

Wild bird, I stole you from your… And cannot find your nest again; To hear you chirp a little while I wrung your mother’s heart with p… And here you sit and droop and die…

The valiant girls—of them I sing— Who daily to their business go, Happy as larks, and fresh as sprin… They are the bravest things I kno… At eight, from out my lazy tower,

In an old book I found her face Writ by a dead man long ago– I found, and then I lost the plac… So nothing but her face I know, And her soft name writ fair below.

To Irma, Not all my treasure hath the bandi… Locked in his glimmering caverns o… Fair women dead and friendships of… And noble dreams that had to end a…

Go, little book, and be the lookin… Of her dear soul, The mirror of her moments as they… Keeping the whole; Wherein she still may look on yest…

(TO L. AND H.H.) O you that dwell 'mid farm and fol… Yet keep so quick undulled a heart… I send you here that book of gold, So loved so long;

I said-I care not if I can But look into her eyes again, But lay my hand within her hand Just once again. Though all the world be filled wit…

On drives the road-another mile! a… Time’s horses gallop down the less… O why such haste, with nothing at… Fain are we all, grim driver, to d… And stretch with lingering feet th…

Shadows! the only shadows that I… Are happy shadows of the light of… The radiance immortal shining thro… Your sea-deep eyes up from the sou… Your shadow, like a rose’s, on the…

Strange little spring, by channels… Gentle, resistless, welling, welli… Through what blind ways, we know n… You darkling come to dance and dim… Strange little spring!

With Pipe and Book at close of da… Oh, what is sweeter, mortal, say? It matters not what book on knee, Old Izaak or the Odyssey, It matters not meerschaum or clay.

With laughter always on the darkes… She danced before the very face of… Starry companion of my mortal way, Pre-destined merrily to be my mate… With eyes as calm, she met the eye…