THE IMPRISONED LARK.

Did you send your song to the gates of gold In the days of long ago?

A song of sweetness and gladness untold, Till fain was my lady to have and to hold-- Ah! my lady did not know.

'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song, If we only understood.

Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong, When the days stretch out so weary and long, Dear little bird of the wood?

The sun came so boldly into your cell-- 'Tis the springtime, pretty bird-- And full sweet the story he had to tell Of doings in meadow and wood and dell, Till your longing grew and stirred.

This cage of my lady's has silver bars, And my lady's voice is mild, But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars, Forget the hurt of the prison bars In the gladness of freedom wild!

To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade Where dewdrops hide from the sun!

O fields where the blossoming clover swayed!

O voices familiar that music made Till the full, glad day was done!

Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood, And you stilled the laughing throng.

To make pa.s.sionate longing understood You took the height and depth of your mood And flung them into a song!

These guests of my lady's did listen, I know, When out through the silver bars You sent forth a measure, liquid and low As laughter of waters that ebb and flow Under the shimmering stars.

You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and best Your longing heart held in store, Till into the careless listener's breast There flashed a sudden and vague unrest, That grew into something more.

Eyes saw for a few brief moments' s.p.a.ce The heights that were never trod, And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold race That was planned in the hours when youth and grace Came fresh from the hand of G.o.d.

Only a homesick bird of the field Trilling a glorious note!

Only a homesick bird of the wood With heaven in your full throat!

WOMAN.

Not faultless, for she was not fashioned so, A mingling of the bitter and the sweet; Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper low Of hope and trust and happiness complete, Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire, Or make themselves but wells of tenderness Wherein is drowned all bitterness and ire-- Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress.

Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth, And only heaven fully knows her worth.

THE MULLEIN MEADOW.

Down in the mullein meadow The l.u.s.ty thistle springs, The b.u.t.terflies go criss-cross, The lonesome catbird sings,

The alderbush is flaunting Her blossoms white as snow-- The same old mullein meadow We played in long ago.

The waste land of the homestead, The arid sandy spot, Where reaper's song is never heard, Where wealth is never sought,

But where the sunshine lingers, And merry breezes come To gather pungent perfumes From the mullein-stalks abloom.

There's a playground on the hillside, A playhouse in the glade, With mulleins for a garden, And mulleins for a shade.

And still the farmer grumbles That nothing good will grow In this old mullein meadow We played in long ago!

LIVING FRESHNESS.

O freshness, living freshness of a day In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight, And not a stain of wear shows on the gra.s.s Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls, "Our day of loveliness is past and gone!"

I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells, The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks; The wild-flowers found the sunlight where they stood, And some hid their white faces quite away, While others lifted up their starry eyes And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze.

LIFE'S DAY.

"Life's day is too brief," he said at dawn, "I would it were ten times longer, For great tasks wait for me further on."

At noonday the wish was stronger.

His place was in the thick of the strife, And hopes were nearing completeness, While one was crowning the joys of life With love's own wonderful sweetness.

"Life's day is too brief for all it contains, The triumphs, the fighting, the proving, The hopes and desires, the joys and the pains-- Too brief for the hating and loving."

To-night he sits in the shadows gray, While heavily sorrow presses.

O the long, long day! O the weary day, With its failures and successes!

He sits in the shadows and turns his eyes On the years that lie behind him.

"I am tired of all things now," he cries, And the hot tears rise and blind him.

"Rest and stillness is all that I crave, Such robbing of strength has grief done.

Make room, dear love, in your lowly grave-- Life's day, thank G.o.d, is a brief one!"

MORNING.

The eastern sky grew all aglow, A tinted fleet sailed just below.

The thick wood and the clinging mist Slow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed.