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The yielding wood? And yet 'twas loth

To yield unto our happy march;

That strange mood seemed to draw a Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both

cloud away,

Could pass its green, elastic arch.

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We fly-still sways and swings around

One scanty circle's starry bound.

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!

Ah, many a month those stars have

shone,

If but the wind holds, short the run:
We'll sail in with to-morrow's sun.
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

A FACE IN THE STREET.

And many a golden morn has flown, POOR, withered face, that yet was

Since that so solemn happy morn,
When, I away, my babe was born.

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

once so fair,

Grown ashen-old in the wild fires

of lust

Thy star-like beauty, dimmed with earthly dust,

Yet breathing of a purer native air;

And, though so near we're drawing They who, whilom, cursed vultures,

now,

'Tis farther off - I know not how
I would not aught amiss had come
To babe or mother there, at home!
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

'Tis but a seeming; swiftly rush
The seas, beneath. I hear the crush
Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow.
Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know.
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

Patience, my mates! Though not
this eve,
We cast our anchor, yet believe,

sought a share

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Pipe the glad birds that in the forest dwell;

Where hearths are set curled wreaths of vapor tell;

Life's grace and promise win the soul again;

Hope floods the heart like sunshine after rain.

The wood is past, and tranquil meadows wide,

Bathed in bright vapor, stretch on every side.

A MARCH VIOLET.

BLACK boughs against a pale clear sky,

[From Scenes in the Wood. Suggested by Slight mists of cloud-wreaths floating Robert Schumann.]

NIGHT.

WHITE stars begin to prick the wan blue sky,

The trees arise, thick, black and tall: between

Their slim, dark boles, gray, filmwinged gnats that fly Against the failing western red are

seen.

The footpaths dumb with moss have lost their green. Mysterious shadows settle everywhere,

A passionate murmur trembles in the air.

by:

Soft sunlight, gray-blue smoky air,
Wet thawing snows on hillsides bare;
Loud streams, moist sodden earth;
below

Quick seedlings stir, rich juices flow
Through frozen veins of rigid wood,
And the whole forest bestirs in bud.
No longer stark the branches spread
An iron network overhead.
Albeit naked still of green;
Through this soft, lustrous vapor

seen

On budding boughs a warm flush glows,

With tints of purple and pale rose. Breathing of spring, the delicate air Lifts playfully the loosend hair

Sweet scents wax richer, freshened To kiss the cool brow. Let us rest

with cool dews,

The whole vast forest seems to breathe, to sigh

With rustle, hum and whisper that confuse

The listening ear, blent with the fitful cry

Of some belated bird. In the far sky, Throbbing with stars, there stirs a weird unrest,

Strange joy, akin to pain, fulfils the breast

A longing born of fears and promises, A wild desire, a hope that heeds no bound.

A ray of moonlight struggling through the trees

Startles us like a phantom; on the ground

Fall curious shades; white glory spreads around;

In this bright, sheltered nook, now

blest

With broad noon sunshine over all, Though here June's leafiest shadows fall.

Young grass sprouts here. Look up! the sky

Is veiled by woven greenery.
Fresh little folded leaves - the first,
And goldener than green, they burst
Their thick full buds and take the
breeze.

Here, when November stripped the trees.

I came to wrestle with a grief:
Solace I sought not, nor relief.
I shed no tears, I craved no grace
I fain would see Grief face to face,
Fathom her awful eyes at length,
Measure my strength against her
strength,

I wondered why the Preacher saith, "Like as the grass that withereth.'

The late, close blades still waved

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around;

I clutched a handful from the ground.
He mocks us cruelly," I said:
"The frail herb lives and she is
dead."

I lay dumb, sightless, deaf as she;
The long slow hours passed over me,
I saw Grief face to face; I know
The very form and traits of Woe.
I drained the galled dregs of the
draught

She offered me: I could have laughed
In irony of sheer despair,
Although I could not weep. The air
Thickened with twilight shadows
dim:

I rose and left. I knew each limb
Of these great trees, each gnarled,
rough root
Piercing the clay, each cone of fruit
They bear in autumn.

What blooms here,
Filling the honeyed atmosphere
With faint, delicious fragrancies,
Freighted with blessed memories?
The earliest March violet,
Dear as the image of Regret,
And beautiful as Hope. Again
Past visions thrill and haunt my
brain,

Through tears I see the nodding head, The purple and the green dispread. Here, where I nursed despair that

morn,

The promise of fresh joy is born,
Arrayed in sober colors still,
But piercing the gray mould to fill
With vague sweet influence the air,
To lift the heart's dead weight of

care.

Longings and golden dreams to bring With joyous phantasies of spring.

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She is so wondrous fair
With daisies and with primroses,
And sunlit, waving air;
And not because her bosom holds
Thy dearest and thy best,
And some day will thyself infold
In calm and peaceful rest.
Now, while thou lovest violets,

Because mid grass they wave,
And not because they bloom upon
Some early-shapen grave.
Now, while thou lovest trembling
stars,

But just because they shine, And not because they're nearer one Who never can be thine.

Now, while thou lovest music's strains,

Because they cheer thy heart, And not because from aching eyes

They make the tear-drops start. Now, whilst thou lovest all on earth And deemest all will last, Before thy hope is vanished quite, And every joy has past; Remember Him, the only One,

Before the days draw nigh When thou shalt have no joy in them.

And praying, yearn to die.

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