When morning winds sweep meadow-lands In green and russet billows.

And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs.

And silver all the willows,

I see you buffeting the breeze, Or with its motion swaying, Your notes half drowned against the wind, Or down the current playing.

When far away o'er gra.s.sy flats, Where the thick wood commences, The white-sleeved mowers look like specks, Beyond the zigzag fences,

And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam White in the pale blue distance, I hear the saucy minstrels still In chattering persistence.

When eve her domes of opal fire Piles round the blue horizon, Or thunder rolls from hill to hill A Kyrie Eleison,

Still merriest of the merry birds, Your sparkle is unfading,-- Pied harlequins of June,--no end Of song and masquerading.

Hope springs with you: I dread no more Despondency and dulness; For Good Supreme can never fail That gives such perfect fulness.

The life that floods the happy fields With song and light and color Will shape our lives to richer states, And heap our measures fuller.

CHRISTOPHER PEa.r.s.e CRANCH.

_To a Waterfowl_[11]

Whither 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocky billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

[Footnote 11: _By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works._]

_Goldfinches_

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low-hung branches; little s.p.a.ce they stop, But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek, Then off at once, as in a wanton freak; Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That naught less sweet might call my thoughts away Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown Fanning away the dandelion's down.

JOHN KEATS.

_The Sandpiper_

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,-- One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high.

Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,-- One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not G.o.d's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

CELIA THAXTER.

_The Eagle_

(Fragment)

He clasps the crag with hooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls; And like a thunderbolt he falls.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

_Child's Talk in April_

I wish you were a pleasant wren, And I your small accepted mate; How we'd look down on toilsome men!

We'd rise and go to bed at eight Or it may be not quite so late.

Then you should see the nest I'd build, The wondrous nest for you and me; The outside rough perhaps, but filled With wool and down; ah, you should see The cosy nest that it would be.

We'd have our change of hope and fear, Some quarrels, reconcilements sweet: I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer, Or hop about on active feet, And fetch you dainty bits to eat.

We'd be so happy by the day.

So safe and happy through the night, We both should feel, and I should say, It's all one season of delight, And we'll make merry whilst we may.

Perhaps some day there'd be an egg When spring had blossomed from the snow: I'd stand triumphant on one leg; Like chanticleer I'd almost crow To let our little neighbours know.

Next you should sit and I would sing Through lengthening days of sunny spring; Till, if you wearied of the task, I'd sit; and you should spread your wing From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.