Birds in the tree … a flower-decked lea.
Love shoots his shaft; the dart takes wing …
A man … a maiden fancy-free…
—'Tis Spring.

A beach … a moon … and none too soon,
The maid with Cupid's last newcomer…
A balmy night … ideal June…
—'Tis Summer.

A church … a bright October night…
A Wedding March … a floral hall…
A ring … the maid in dazzling white…
—'Tis Fall.

A scene … a short and hot retort…
A column in “The Newport Printer”…
A bleak day and a crowded court…

Fire he sings of—fierce and poignant flame;
Passion that bids a timid world be bold,
And Love that rides the tempest uncontrolled,
Scorning all customs with a greater claim.
Yet, underneath the ink, his soul is staid;
Calm, even calculating, shrewd and cold.
His pain lives but in print; his tears are rolled
And packed in small, neat lyrics for the trade.

He hawks his passions of assorted brands;
Romantic toys and tinsels of desire;
Marionettes that plead as he commands;
Rockets that sputter feebly, and expire. . .

Romance with firm and eager tread
Walked at his shoulder;
He never turned his rapt, poetic head
Once to behold her.

He sought her in the skies, in dreams,
In mystic meadows;
He plunged through myths and lost her face in gleams,
Clasping her shadows.

“It is this age,” he cried, “these things
Blind and bewilder!
Weep for Romance, with frail and trembling wings;
This world has killed her.”

And still he seeks her, warm or dead—
The quest enthralling!
And still Romance, with strong and tireless tread,
Follows him, calling. . .

The jazz band struck up Dixie . . . I could see
A boy from Texas slipping down a trench
While some gray phantom with a grinding wrench
Twisted an arm and pulled its bayonet free.
I saw a blur of mud and flies where three
Friends from the South had joked about the stench.
And there, complaining of his lack of French,
A Richmond black felt for his missing knee.

The fife screamed Yankee Doodle . . . and the throng
Danced to a ragtime patriotic air.
The martial fervor grew as several strong
And well-shaped girls not altogether bare

O, why do you weep mother, why do you weep
For baby that fell in the summer to sleep?
You say that you prayed, when she lingered in pain,
That God in His mercy would take her again.
He heeded your prayer, and a beautiful sleep
Stole over our darling; then why do you weep?
You tell how the angels sang pæans of love
To welcome her home to the mansions above,
Where lovingly over her spirit they keep
A bright watch forever; then why do you weep?
And have you not told us again and again
That we will yet see her set free from all pain,

'Tis said that tracts of sea-roadway
And earth supremacy,
Are claimed by those who rule and sway
By right of heraldry.

But kings are men, despite their role,
And blind, or they would see
That mortal man cannot control
An inch of land or sea.

When Boanerges wakes the waves,
And blue bluffs rise and roll
O'er sinking ships and soundless graves,
Who takes the awful toll?

Where is the wealth that erstwhile filled
Th' Armadas of old Spain?
Did Philip with the tempest stilled
Demand it back again?

Sister, dear, when you are lonely,
Longing for your distant home,
And the images of loved ones
Warmly to your heart shall come,
Then, mid tender thoughts and fancies,
Let one fond voice say to thee,
“Ever when your heart is heavy,
Anna, dear, then think of me.”

Think how we two have together
Journeyed onward day by day,
Joys and sorrows ever sharing,
While the swift years roll away.
Then may all the sunny hours
Of our youth rise up to thee,
And when your heart is light and happy,
Anna, dear, then think of me.

I CAUGHT a little bird, and I shut him in a cage,
And I said, “Now, my pet, I love thee dearly.
Fold thy bright wings, nor let thy fancy range:
Thou'rt mine own, so sing, I pray thee, cheerly.”

But, oh, the little bird, he fluttered still his wings,
And with bright, wild eyes he never ceased to watch me,
And I only heard him say, “'T is a free heart that sings,—
Open my door, and I'll sing till you catch me.”

I brought him dainty food, and I soothed him long and well,
But the timid little heart ceased not to tremble.

When we confront the Vastness of the Night,
And meet the gaze of her eternal eyes,
How trivial seem the garnered gains we prize—
The laurel wreath we flaunt to envious sight;
The flower of Love we pluck for our delight;
The mad, sweet music of the heart, that cries
An instant on the listening air, then dies—
How short the day of all things dear and bright!

The Everlasting mocks our transient strife;
The pageant of the Universe whirls by
This little sphere with petty turmoil rife—
Swift as a dream and fleeting as a sigh—

The mist in the meadow is silver
When day comes over the river,
When day comes ferrying over
The sunrise river is gray.
The leaden waters awaken
All gleaming and aquiver,
And frost-hung rushes sparkle
Like stars in the Milky Way.

The meadow's a little hollow
Like the cup of a hand to hold
The early morning silver
Or later morning gold,
And all in the misty morning
The little rabbits run
And drink in the cup of the meadow
A greeting to the sun.

A chickadee comes to my window
To find his breakfast there,