The summer wind read with thee, and the bees That on the sunny pages loved to crawl: A skipping reader was the impatient breeze, And turned the leaves, but the slow bees read all.

And now thy foot descends the terrace stair: I hear the rustle of thy silk attire; I breathe the musky odors of thy hair And airs that from thy painted fan respire.

Idly thou pausest in the shady walk, Thine ear attentive to the fountain's fall: Thou mark'st the flower-de-luce sway on her stalk, The speckled vergalieus ripening on the wall.

Thou hast the feature of my mother's race, The gilded comb she wore, her smile, her eye: The blood that flushes softly in thy face Crawls through my veins beneath this northern sky.

As one disherited, though next of kin, Who lingers at the barred ancestral gate, And sadly sees the happy heir within Stroll careless through his forfeited estate;

Even so I watch thy southern eyes, Lisette, Lady of my lost paradise and heir Of summer days there were my birthright. Yet Beauty like thine makes usurpation fair.

IM SCHWARZWALD

The winter sunset, red upon the snow, Lights up the narrow way that I should go; Winding o'er bare white hilltops, whereon lie Dark churches and the holy evening sky.

That path would lead me deep into the west, Even to the feet of her I love the best.

But this scarce broken track in which I stand Runs east, up through the tan-wood's midnight land; Where now the newly risen moon doth throw The shadows of long stems across the snow.

This path would take me to the Jager's Tree Where stands the Swabian girl and waits for me.

Her eyes are blacker than the woods at night And witching as the moon's uncertain light; And there are tones in that low voice of hers Caught from the wind among the Schwarzwald firs, And from the Gutach's echoing waters, when Still evening listens in the Forsthaus glen.

I must--I must! Thou wilt forgive me, sweet; My heart flies west but eastward move my feet; The mad moon brightens as the sunset dies, And yonder hexie draws me with her eyes.

_Ruck, ruck an meine grune Seit!_ she sings And with her arms the frozen trunk enrings,

And lays upon its bark her little face.

How canst thou be so dead in her embrace-- So cold against her kisses, happy tree?

Thou hast no love beyond the western sea.

Methinks that at the lightest touch of her Thy wooden trunk should tremble, thy boughs stir:

But at the pressure of her tender form Thy inmost pith should feel her and grow warm: The torpid sap should race along the vein; The resinous buds should swell, and once again Fresh needles shoot, as though the breeze of spring Already through the woods came whispering.

WAITING FOR WINTER

What honey in the year's last flowers can hide, These little yellow b.u.t.terflies may know: With falling leaves they waver to and fro, Or on the swinging tops of asters ride.

But I am weary of the summer's pride And sick September's simulated show: Why do the colder winds delay to blow And bring the pleasant hours that we abide; To curtained alcove and sweet household talks, Or sweeter silence by our flickering Lars, Returning late from autumn evening walks Upon the frosty hills, while reddening Mars Hangs low between the withered mullein stalks, And upward throngs the host of winter stars?

[Greek: T Pan]

The little creek which yesterday I saw Ooze through the sedges, and each brackish vein That sluiced the marsh, now filled and then again Sucked dry to glut the sea's unsated maw, All ebb and flow by the same rhythmic law That times the beat of the Atlantic main-- They also fastened to the swift moon's train By unseen cords that no less strongly draw.

So, poet, may thy life's small tributary Threading some bitter marsh, obscure, alone, Feel yet one pulse with the broad estuary That bears an emperor's fleets through half a zone: May wait upon the same high luminary And pitch its voice to the same ocean's tone.

THE SINGER OF ONE SONG

He sang one song and died--no more but that: A single song and carelessly complete.

He would not bind and thresh his chance-grown wheat, Nor bring his wild fruit to the common vat, To store the acid rinsings, thin and flat, Squeezed from the press or trodden under feet.

A few slow beads, blood-red and honey sweet, Oozed from the grape, which burst and spilled its fat.

But Time, who soonest drops the heaviest things That weight his pack, will carry diamonds long.

So through the poet's orchestra, which weaves One music from a thousand stops and strings, Pierces the note of that immortal song:-- "High over all the lonely bugle grieves."

POSTHUMOUS

Put them in print?

Make one more dint In the ages' furrowed rock? No, no!

Let his name and his verses go.

These idle sc.r.a.ps, they would but wrong His memory, whom we honored long; And men would ask: "Is this the best-- Is this the whole his life expressed?"

Haply he had no care to tell To all the thoughts which flung their spell Around us when the night grew deep, Making it seem a loss to sleep, Exalting the low, dingy room To some high auditorium.

And when we parted homeward, still They followed us beyond the hill.

The heaven had brought new stars to sight, Opening the map of later night; And the wide silence of the snow, And the dark whispers of the pines, And those keen fires that glittered slow Along the zodiac's wintry signs, Seemed witnesses and near of kin To the high dreams we held within.

Yet what is left To us bereft, Save these remains, Which now the moth Will fret, or swifter fire consume?

These inky stains On his table-cloth; These prints that decked his room; His throne, this ragged easy-chair; This battered pipe, his councillor.

This is the sum and inventory.

No son he left to tell his story, No gold, no lands, no fame, no book.

Yet one of us, his heirs, who took The impress of his brain and heart May gain from Heaven the lucky art His untold meanings to impart In words that will not soon decay.

Then gratefully will such one say: "This phrase, dear friend, perhaps, is mine; The breath that gave it life was thine."

HUGH LATIMER

His lips amid the flame outsent A music strong and sweet, Like some unearthly instrument That's played upon by heat.

As spice-wood tough, laid on the coal, Sets all its perfume free, The incense of his hardy soul Rose up exceedingly.

To open that great flower, too cold Were sun and vernal rain; But fire has forced it to unfold, Nor will it shut again.

CARcAMON

His steed was old, his armor worn, And he was old and worn and gray: The light that lit his patient eyes It shone from very far away.