So in the garden of my heart each day I plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace, And now the lily, faith--or now a spray Of the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er cease Around the still unblossoming rose of love To bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.

Then--for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns, The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runs With brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.

3

But where now art thou? Watching with love's eye The eve-star wander? Listening through dim trees Some thrilled muezzin of the forest cry From his leafy minaret? Or by the sea's Blue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangs Like the faery isle of Avalon, do these My yearnings speak to thee of days thy feet Have never trod?--Sweet, sweet, oh, more than sweet, My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.

4

And will be soon! For last night near to-day, Dreaming, G.o.d called me thro' the s.p.a.ce-built sphere Of heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and lay Thine ear unto my Heart--there thou shalt hear The secrets of this world where evils war."

Such things I heard as must rend mortal clay To tell, and trembled--till G.o.d, pitying, Said, "Listen" ... Oh, my love, I heard thee sing Out of thy window to the morning star!

STORM-TWILIGHT

Tossing, swirling, swept by the wind, Beaten abaft by the rain, The swallows high in the sodden sky Circle oft and again.

They rise and sink and drift and swing, Twitterless in the chill; A-haste, for stark is the coming dark Over the wet of the hill.

Wildly, swiftly, at last they stream Into their chimney home.

A livid gash in the west, a crash-- Then silence, sadness, gloam.

SLAVES

A host of b.l.o.o.d.y centuries lie p.r.o.ne Upon the fields of Time--but still the wake Of Progress loud is haunted with the groan Of myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slake His scarlet thirst, has War, fierce Polypheme Of fate, insatiately drunk life's stream.

We bid the courier lightning leap along Its instant path with spirit speed--command Stars lost in night-eternity to throng Before the magnet eye of Science--stand On Glory's peak and triumphingly cry Out mastery of earth and sea and air.

But unto War's necessity we bare Our piteous b.r.e.a.s.t.s--and impotently die.

AVOWAL TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Tho' thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delight Upon these airs, bird of the poet's love, Yet must I sing thy singing! For the Night Has poured her jewels o'er the lap of heaven As they who hear thee say thou dost above The wood such ecstasies as were not given By nestling b.r.e.a.s.t.s of Venus to the dove.

2

Oft have I watched the moon with her fair gold Still clung to by the tattered mists of day Arise and look for thee. Then hope grew bold.

And almost I could see how the near laurels Would tremble with thy trembling: but the sway Of bards who wreathed thee with unfading chorals Has held my longing lips from this poor lay.

3

But take it now. And if the lark--who is Too high for earth--may vie for praise with thee In aery rhapsody, yet it is his To sing of day and joy, while thou of sorrow And night o'erhovering singest. So thou'lt be More dear than he--till hearts shall cease to borrow From grief the healing for life's mystery.

WILDNESS

To drift with the drifting clouds, And blow with the blow of breezes, To ripple with waves and murmur with caves To soar, as the sea-mew pleases!

To dip with the dipping sails, And burn with the burning heaven-- My life! my soul! for the infinite roll Of a day to wildness given!

BEFORE AUTUMN

Summer's last moon has waned-- Waned As amber fires Of an Aztec shrine.

The invisible breath of coming death has stained The withering leaves with its nepenthean wine-- Autumn's near.

Winds in the woodland moan-- Moan As memories Of a chilling yore.

Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strown From crimson pods along the earth's sere floor-- Autumn's near.

Solitude slowly steals, Steals Her silent way By the songless brook.

At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels, The musing joy of sadness in her look-- Autumn's near.

Yes, with her golden days-- Days When hope and toil Are at peace and rest-- Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praise Lies down with leaf and blossom on his breast-- Autumn's near.

FULFILMENT

A-bask in the mellow beauty of the ripening sun, Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done, The shorn and searing fields stretch from me one by one Along the creek.

The corn-stalks drop their shadows down the fallow hill; Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill, Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still-- Life's flow is weak.

Along the weedy roads and lanes I walk--or pause-- Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose caws Seem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awes Of forest deeps.

Of forest deeps the pale-face hunter never trod, Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod; Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of G.o.d, Who never sleeps.

And many times has Autumn, on her harvest way, Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray; Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day, The while she reaps.