And when amid those grand old woods I sit and shut my eyes, My heart will travel back again To where my Mary lies; I 'll think I see the little stile Where we sat, side by side,-- And the springing corn and bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

MICHAEL FIELD.

_WINDS TO-DAY ARE LARGE AND FREE._

Winds to-day are large and free, Winds to-day are westerly; From the land they seem to blow Whence the sap begins to flow And the dimpled light to spread, From the country of the dead.

Ah, it is a wild, sweet land Where the coming May is planned, Where such influences throb As our frosts can never rob Of their triumph, when they bound Through the tree and from the ground.

Great within me is my soul, Great to journey to its goal, To the country of the dead; For the cornel-tips are red, And a pa.s.sion rich in strife Drives me toward the home of life.

Oh, to keep the spring with them Who have flushed the cornel-stem, Who imagine at its source All the year's delicious course, Then express by wind and light Something of their rapture's height!

[Decoration]

_LET US WREATHE THE MIGHTY CUP._

Let us wreathe the mighty cup, Then with song we 'll lift it up, And, before we drain the glow Of the juice that foams below Flowers and cool leaves round the brim, Let us swell the praise of him Who is tyrant of the heart, Cupid with his flaming dart!

Pride before his face is bowed, Strength and heedless beauty cowed; Underneath his fatal wings Bend discrowned the heads of kings; Maidens blanch beneath his eye And its laughing mastery; Through each land his arrows sound, By his fetters all are bound.

_WHERE WINDS ABOUND._

Where winds abound, And fields are hilly, Shy daffadilly Looks down on the ground.

Rose cones of larch Are just beginning; Though oaks are spinning No oak-leaves in March.

Spring 's at the core, The boughs are sappy: Good to be happy So long, long before!

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

NORMAN GALE.

1862.

_A SONG._

First the fine, faint, dreamy motion Of the tender blood Circling in the veins of children-- This is Life, the bud.

Next the fresh, advancing beauty Growing from the gloom, Waking eyes and fuller bosom-- This is Life, the bloom.

Then the pain that follows after, Grievous to be borne, p.r.i.c.king, steeped in subtle poison-- This is Love, the thorn.

_SONG._

Wait but a little while-- The bird will bring A heart in tune for melodies Unto the spring, Till he who 's in the cedar there Is moved to trill a song so rare, And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while-- The bud will break; The inner rose will ope and glow For summer's sake; Fond bees will lodge within her breast Till she herself is plucked and prest Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while-- The maid will grow Gracious with lips and hands to thee, With breast of snow.

To-day Love 's mute, but time hath sown A soul in her to match thine own, Though yet ungrown.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

EDMUND GOSSE.

1849.

_SONG FOR THE LUTE._

I bring a garland for your head Of blossoms fresh and fair; My own hands wound their white and red To ring about your hair: Here is a lily, here a rose, A warm narcissus that scarce blows, And fairer blossoms no man knows.

So crowned and chapleted with flowers, I pray you be not proud; For after brief and summer hours Comes autumn with a shroud;-- Though fragrant as a flower you lie, You and your garland, bye and bye, Will fade and wither up and die.

[Decoration]

THOMAS HOOD.

1798-1845.

_BALLAD._