Come see the north wind's masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn: Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night work, The frolic architecture of the snow.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE AWAKENING OF SPRING.

Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now bourgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives

From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

_From "In Memoriam."_

[Ill.u.s.tration]

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD.

Oh, to be in England now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm tree hole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!

And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!

And, though the fields look rough with h.o.a.ry dew All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The b.u.t.tercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon flower!

ROBERT BROWNING.

TWILIGHT CALM.

O Pleasant eventide!

Clouds on the western side Grow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun: The bees and birds, their happy labors done, Seek their close nests and bide.

Screened in the leafy wood The stockdoves sit and brood: The very squirrel leaps from bough to bough But lazily; pauses; and settles now Where once he stored his food.

One by one the flowers close, Lily and dewy rose Shutting their tender petals from the moon: The gra.s.shoppers are still; but not so soon Are still the noisy crows.

The dormouse squats and eats Choice little dainty bits Beneath the spreading roots of a broad lime; Nibbling his fill he stops from time to time And listens where he sits.

From far the lowings come Of cattle driven home: From farther still the wind brings fitfully The vast continual murmur of the sea, Now loud, now almost dumb.

The gnats whirl in the air, The evening gnats; and there The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail For prey; the bat wakes; and the sh.e.l.l-less snail Comes forth, clammy and bare.

Hark! that's the nightingale.

Telling the selfsame tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale.

We call it love and pain, The pa.s.sion of her strain; And yet we little understand or know: Why should it not be rather joy that so Throbs in each throbbing vein?

In separate herds the deer Lie; here the bucks, and here The does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn: Through all the hours of night until the dawn They sleep, forgetting fear.

The hare sleeps where it lies, With wary half-closed eyes: The c.o.c.k has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck: Only the fox is out, some heedless duck Or chicken to surprise.

Remote, each single star Comes out, till there they are All shining brightly: how the dews fall damp!

While close at hand the glowworm lights her lamp Or twinkles from afar.

But evening now is done As much as if the sun Day-giving had arisen in the east: For night has come; and the great calm has ceased, The quiet sands have run.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ABIDE WITH ME.

Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me!

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pa.s.s away: Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou, who changest not, abide with me!

Not a brief glance I beg, a pa.s.sing word, But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord, Familiar, condescending, patient, free, Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me!

Come not in terrors, as the King of kings; But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings: Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea:-- Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me!

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile, And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee; On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!

I need Thy presence every pa.s.sing hour: What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's power?

Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be?

Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me!