Fear me not, oh little sparrow, Bathe and never fear, For to me both pool and yarrow And thyself are dear.

THE POET'S POSSESSION

Think not, oh master of the well-tilled field, This earth is only thine; for after thee, When all is sown and gathered and put by, Comes the grave poet with creative eye, And from these silent acres and clean plots, Bids with his wand the fancied after-yield, A second tilth and second harvest, be, The crop of images and curious thoughts.

AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE

No wind there is that either pipes or moans; The fields are cold and still; the sky Is covered with a blue-gray sheet Of motionless cloud; and at my feet The river, curling softly by, Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.

Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves The road runs rough and silent, lined With plum-trees, misty and blue-gray, And poplars pallid as the day, In ma.s.ses spectral, undefined, Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.

And on beside the river's sober edge A long fresh field lies black. Beyond, Low thickets gray and reddish stand, Stroked white with birch; and near at hand, Over a little steel-smooth pond, Hang mult.i.tudes of thin and withering sedge.

Across a waste and solitary rise A ploughman urges his dull team, A stooped gray figure with p.r.o.ne brow That plunges bending to the plough With strong, uneven steps. The stream Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries.

Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn, Comes from far off; and crows in strings Pa.s.s on the upper silences.

A flock of small gray goldfinches, Flown down with silvery twitterings, Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.

This day the season seems like one that heeds, With fixed ear and lifted hand, All moods that yet are known on earth, All motions that have faintest birth, If haply she may understand The utmost inward sense of all her deeds.

IN NOVEMBER

With loitering step and quiet eye, Beneath the low November sky, I wandered in the woods, and found A clearing, where the broken ground Was scattered with black stumps and briers, And the old wreck of forest fires.

It was a bleak and sandy spot, And, all about, the vacant plot Was peopled and inhabited By scores of mulleins long since dead.

A silent and forsaken brood In that mute opening of the wood, So shrivelled and so thin they were, So gray, so haggard, and austere, Not plants at all they seemed to me, But rather some spare company Of hermit folk, who long ago, Wandering in bodies to and fro, Had chanced upon this lonely way, And rested thus, till death one day Surprised them at their compline prayer, And left them standing lifeless there.

There was no sound about the wood Save the wind's secret stir. I stood Among the mullein-stalks as still As if myself had grown to be One of their sombre company, A body without wish or will.

And as I stood, quite suddenly, Down from a furrow in the sky The sun shone out a little s.p.a.ce Across that silent sober place, Over the sand heaps and brown sod, The mulleins and dead goldenrod, And pa.s.sed beyond the thickets gray, And lit the fallen leaves that lay, Level and deep within the wood, A rustling yellow mult.i.tude.

And all around me the thin light, So sere, so melancholy bright, Fell like the half-reflected gleam Or shadow of some former dream; A moment's golden revery Poured out on every plant and tree A semblance of weird joy, or less, A sort of spectral happiness; And I, too, standing idly there, With m.u.f.fled hands in the chill air, Felt the warm glow about my feet, And shuddering betwixt cold and heat, Drew my thoughts closer, like a cloak, While something in my blood awoke, A nameless and unnatural cheer, A pleasure secret and austere.

BY AN AUTUMN STREAM

Now overhead, Where the rivulet loiters and stops, The bittersweet hangs from the tops Of the alders and cherries Its bunches of beautiful berries, Orange and red.

And the s...o...b..rds flee, Tossing up on the far brown field, Now flashing and now concealed, Like fringes of spray That vanish and gleam on the gray Field of the sea.

Flickering light, Come the last of the leaves down borne, And patches of pale white corn In the wind complain, Like the slow rustle of rain Noticed by night.

Withered and thinned, The sentinel mullein looms, With the pale gray shadowy plumes Of the goldenrod; And the milkweed opens its pod, Tempting the wind.

Aloft on the hill, A cloudrift opens and shines Through a break in its gorget of pines, And it dreams at my feet In a sad, silvery sheet, Utterly still.

All things that be Seem plunged into silence, distraught, By some stern, some necessitous thought: It wraps and enthralls Marsh, meadow, and forest; and falls Also on me.

s...o...b..RDS

Along the narrow sandy height I watch them swiftly come and go, Or round the leafless wood, Like flurries of wind-driven snow, Revolving in perpetual flight, A changing mult.i.tude.

Nearer and nearer still they sway, And, scattering in a circled sweep, Rush down without a sound; And now I see them peer and peep, Across yon level bleak and gray, Searching the frozen ground,--

Until a little wind upheaves, And makes a sudden rustling there, And then they drop their play, Flash up into the sunless air, And like a flight of silver leaves Swirl round and sweep away.

SNOW

White are the far-off plains, and white The fading forests grow; The wind dies out along the height, And denser still the snow, A gathering weight on roof and tree, Falls down scarce audibly.

The road before me smooths and fills Apace, and all about The fences dwindle, and the hills Are blotted slowly out; The naked trees loom spectrally Into the dim white sky.

The meadows and far-sheeted streams Lie still without a sound; Like some soft minister of dreams The snow-fall hoods me round; In wood and water, earth and air, A silence everywhere.

Save when at lonely intervals Some farmer's sleigh, urged on, With rustling runners and sharp bells, Swings by me and is gone; Or from the empty waste I hear A sound remote and clear;

The barking of a dog, or call To cattle, sharply pealed, Borne echoing from some wayside stall Or barnyard far a-field; Then all is silent, and the snow Falls, settling soft and slow.

The evening deepens, and the gray Folds closer earth and sky; The world seems shrouded far away; Its noises sleep, and I, As secret as yon buried stream, Plod dumbly on, and dream.

SUNSET

From this windy bridge at rest, In some former curious hour, We have watched the city's hue, All along the orange west, Cupola and pointed tower, Darken into solid blue.