VAGABONDS

Your heart's a-tune with April and mine a-tune with June, So let us go a-roving beneath the summer moon: Oh, was it in the sunlight, or was it in the rain, We met among the blossoms within the locust lane?

All that I can remember's the bird that sang aboon, And with its music in our hearts we'll rove beneath the moon.

A love-word of the wind, dear, of which we'll read the rune, While we still go a-roving beneath the summer moon: A love-kiss of the water we'll often stop to hear-- The echoed words and kisses of our own love, my dear: And all our path shall blossom with wild-rose sweets that swoon, And with their fragrance in our hearts we'll rove beneath the moon.

It will not be forever, yet merry goes the tune While we still go a-roving beneath the summer moon: A cabin, in the clearing, of flickering firelight When old-time lanes we strolled in the winter snows make white: Where we can nod together above the logs and croon The songs we sang when roving beneath the summer moon.

AN OLD SONG

It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one With a vagabond foot that follows!

And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on!

We'll soon be out of the hollows, My heart!

We'll soon be out of the hollows!"

It's Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some one With a renegade foot that doubles!

And a kindly look that he turns upon Your face with the friendly laugh, "Come on!

We'll soon be out of the troubles, My heart!

We'll soon be out of the troubles!"

A ROSE O' THE HILLS

The hills look down on wood and stream, On orchard-land and farm; And o'er the hills the azure-gray Of heaven bends the livelong day With thoughts of calm and storm.

On wood and stream the hills look down, On farm and orchard-land; And o'er the hills she came to me Through wildrose-brake and blackberry, The hill wind hand in hand.

The hills look down on home and field, On wood and winding stream; And o'er the hills she came along, Upon her lips a woodland song, And in her eyes, a dream.

On home and field the hills look down, On stream and vistaed wood; And breast-deep, with disordered hair, Fair in the wildrose tangle there, A sudden s.p.a.ce she stood.

O hills, that look on rock and road, On grove and harvest-field, To whom G.o.d giveth rest and peace, And slumber, that is kin to these, And visions unrevealed!

O hills, that look on road and rock, On field and fruited grove, What now is mine of peace and rest In you! since entered at my breast G.o.d's sweet unrest of love!

DIRGE

What shall her silence keep Under the sun?

Here, where the willows weep And waters run; Here, where she lies asleep, And all is done.

Lights, when the tree-top swings; Scents that are sown; Sounds of the wood-bird's wings; And the bee's drone: These be her comfortings Under the stone.

What shall watch o'er her here When day is fled?

Here, when the night is near And skies are red; Here, where she lieth dear And young and dead.

Shadows, and winds that spill Dew; and the tune Of the wild whippoorwill; And the white moon; These be the watchers still Over her stone.

REST

Under the brindled beech, Deep in the mottled shade, Where the rocks hang in reach Flower and ferny blade, Let him be laid.

Here will the brooks, that rove Under the mossy trees, Grave with the music of Underworld melodies, Lap him in peace.

Here will the winds, that blow Out of the haunted west, Gold with the dreams that glow There on the heaven's breast, Lull him to rest.

Here will the stars and moon, Silent and far and deep, Old with the mystic rune Of the slow years that creep, Charm him with sleep.

Under the ancient beech, Deep in the mossy shade, Where the hill moods may reach, Where the hill dreams may aid, Let him be laid.

CLAIRVOYANCE

The sunlight that makes of the heaven A pathway for sylphids to throng; The wind that makes harps of the forests For spirits to smite into song, Are the image and voice of a vision That comforts my heart and makes strong.

I look in one's face, and the shadows Are lifted: and, lo, I can see, Through windows of evident being, That open on eternity, The form of the essence of Beauty G.o.d clothes with His own mystery.

I lean to one's voice, and the wrangle Of living hath pause: and I hear Through doors of invisible spirit, That open on light that is clear, The radiant raiment of Music In the hush of the heavens sweep near.

INDIFFERENCE

She is so dear the wildflowers near Each path she pa.s.ses by, Are over fain to kiss again Her feet and then to die.

She is so fair the wild birds there That sing upon the bough, Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh, And sing no other now.

Alas! that she should never see, Should never care to know, The wildflower's love, the bird's above, And his, who loves her so!