Lo! endless the pleasure is, May returned, and maladies

Borne to horizons blue, On vessels simple and true,

Far away, on the sea so far Hardly seen, or like dots they are.

Now, under trees, the time glides In the street where my life abides;

Mary of meek workers, steep In the May-wood my head in the sleep

And the rest that my good tools have earned; Sound mind in a sound body urned,

In a Mary-month more splendid, Because all my task is ended.

TO THE EYES.

Now, sky of azure On houses rosy, Like a child of Flanders preach The simple religion I teach, Like a sky of azure On houses rosy;

Lo, to the vexed I bring these roses, When their memory to the islands reaches, The voices that my gospel preaches, Like the gladsome text A child's talk glozes.

You people happy With very little: You women and men of my city, And of all my moments of pity, Be happy With very little;

For letters blue On pages rosy, This is all the book that I read you, Unto your pleasaunce to lead you, In a country blue Houses rosy.

TO THE MOUTH.

For, you my brothers and sisters, With me in my bark you shall go, And my cousins, the fishers, shall show Where the fin of the shoaled fishes glisters,

Whose tides the bow-nets heap, Till the baskets cry out, days and days, Darkening the blue ocean's face, As in a path crowded sheep.

You shall see my nets all swell, And St. Peter helping the fishes Which for the Fridays he wishes, Sole, flounder, mackerel.

And St. John the Evangelist Lending a hand with the sheets, At the low ebb of autumn heats, When haddocks come, says the mist.

And our women with tucked-up sleeves, Like banquets on your tables; And miracles, and fables To tell in the holy eves.

FOR THE EAR.

Then nearer and nearer yet To the sea in a golden fret,

On the dikes where the houses end, The trees to the sea-breeze that bend;

With their baptismal names anch.o.r.ed here, In the rivers to which they are dear,

The vessels my harbour loves best, Cl.u.s.tered, a choir, at their rest.

Now in their festivity, I salute you, _Anna-Marie,_

Who seem in your white sails to bear Cherubs that flit through the air;

And with joy that I scarcely can speak I see you again, _Angelique,_

You with no shrouds on your mast, Safe returned from Iceland at last.

But now, like _Gabrielle_, sing Your new sails smooth as a wing,

And weep no more, _Madeleine,_ For your nets you have lost on the main,

Since all are pardoned, even The wind, for kisses given,

So that in kisses and glee These visiting billows may be

Content with the homage they pay, High the sea, to sing the May.

TO-DAY IS THE DAY OF REST, THE SABBATH.

To-day is the day of rest, the Sabbath, A morning of sunshine, and of bees, And of birds in the garden trees, To-day is the day of rest, the Sabbath;

The children are in their white dresses, Towns are gleaming through the azure haze, This is Flanders with poplar-shaded ways, And the sea the yellow dunes caresses.

To-day is the day of all the angels: Michael with his swallows twittering, Gabriel with his wings all glittering, To-day is the day of all the angels;

Then, people here with happy faces, All the people of my country, who Departed one by one, two by two, To look at life in blue distant places;

To-day is the day of rest, the Sabbath-- The miller is sleeping in the mill-- To-day is the day of rest, the Sabbath, And my song shall now be still.

MARY, SHED YOUR HAIR.

Mary, shed Your hair, for lo!

Here the azure cherubs blow,

And Jesus wakes upon Your breast; Where His rosy fingers rest;

And golden angels lay their chins Upon their breathing violins.