KINSHIP

A lily grew in the tangle, In a flame red garment dressed, And many a ruby spangle Besprinkled her tawny breast.

And the silken moth sailed by her With a swift and a snow-white sail; Not a gilt-girt bee came nigh her, Nor a fly in his gay green mail.

And the bronze-brown wings and the golden, O'er the billowing meadows blown, Were still as by magic holden From the lily that flamed alone;

Till over the fragrant tangle A wanderer winging went, And with many a ruby spangle Were his tawny vans besprent.

And he hovered one moment stilly O'er the thicket, her mazy bower, Then he sank to the heart of the lily, And they seemed but a single flower.

COMPENSATION

The brook ran laughing from the shade, And in the sunshine danced all day: The starlight and the moonlight made Its glimmering path a Milky Way.

The blue sky burned, with summer fired; For parching fields, for pining flowers, The spirits of the air desired The brook's bright life to shed in showers.

It gave its all that thirst to slake; Its dusty channel lifeless lay; Now softest flowers, white-foaming, make Its winding bed a Milky Way.

WHEN WILLOWS GREEN

When goldenly the willows green, And, mirrored in the sunset pool, Hang wavering, wild-rose clouds between: When robins call in twilights cool: What is it we await?

Who lingers and is late?

What strange unrest, what yearning stirs us all When willows green, when robins call?

When fields of flowering gra.s.s respire A sweet that seems the breath of Peace, And liquid-voiced the thrushes choir, Oh, whence the sense of glad release?

What is it life uplifts?

Who entered, bearing gifts?

What floods from heaven the being overpower When thrushes choir, when gra.s.ses flower?

AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

(AD COMITEM JUNIOREM)

Comrade Youth! Sit down with me Underneath the summer tree, Cool green dome whose shade is sweet, Where the sunny roadways meet, See, the ancient finger-post, Silver-bleached with rain and shine, Warns us like a noon-day ghost: That way's yours, and this way's mine!

I would hold you with delays Here at parting of the ways.

Hold you! I as well might look To detain the racing brook With regrets and grievance tender, As my comrade swift and slender, Shy, capricious, all of spring!

Catch the wind with blossoms laden, Catch the wild bird on the wing, Catch the heart of boy or maiden!

Yet I'll hold your image fast, As this hour I saw you last,-- As with staff in hand you sat, Soft curls putting forth defiant From the tilted Mercury's hat, Wreathen with the wilding grace Of the fresh-leaved vine and pliant, Stealing down to see your face.

Eyes of pleasance, lips of laughter, I shall h.o.a.rd you long hereafter; Very dear shall be the days Ere the parting of the ways!

Shall you deem them dear, in truth, Days when we, o'er hill and hollow, Trudged together, Comrade Youth?

Ah, you dream of days to follow!

Hand in hand we jogged along; I would fetch from out my scrip, Crust or jest or antique song,-- Live and lovely, on your lip, Such poor needments as I had Were as yours; you made me glad.

--Lo, the dial! No prayer stays Time, at parting of the ways!

This gold memory--rings it true?

Half for me and half for you.

Cleave and share it. Now, good sooth, G.o.d be with you, Comrade Youth!

THE FAIR GRAY LADY

When the charm at last is fled From the woodland stark and pale, And like shades of glad hours dead Whirl the leaves before the gale:

When against the western fire Darkens many an empty nest, Like a thwarted heart's desire That in prime was hardly guessed:

Then the fair gray Lady leans, Lingering, o'er the faded gra.s.s, Still the soul of all the scenes Once she graced, a golden la.s.s.

O'er the Year's discrowned sleep, Dear as in her earlier day, She her bending watch doth keep, She the Goldenrod grown gray.

THE ENCOUNTER

There's a wood-way winding high, Roofed far up with light-green flicker, Save one midmost star of sky.

Underfoot 'tis all pale brown With the dead leaves matted down One on other, thick and thicker; Soft, but springing to the tread.

There a youth late met a maid Running lightly,--oh, so fleetly!

"Whence art thou?" the herd-boy said.

Either side her long hair swayed, Half a tress and half a braid, Colored like the soft dead leaf, As she answered, laughing sweetly, On she ran, as flies the swallow; He could not choose but follow Though it had been to his grief.

"I have come up from the valley,-- From the valley!" Once he caught her, Swerving down a sidelong alley, For a moment, by the hand.

"Tell me, tell me," he besought her, "Sweetest, I would understand Why so cold thy palm, that slips From me like the shy cold minnow?

The wood is warm, and smells of fern, And below the meadows burn.

Hard to catch and hard to win, oh!

Why are those brown finger tips Crinkled as with lines of water?"

Laughing while she featly footed, With the herd-boy hasting after, Sprang she on a trunk uprooted, Clung she by a roping vine; Leaped behind a birch, and told, Still eluding, through its fine, Mocking, slender, leafy laughter, Why her finger tips were cold: