Tender grass in April springing,
Scent of lilacs wet with rain,
Bluebird jubilantly singing
Snatches of a loved refrain,

Falcon soaring high above me,
Light of stars in deeps divine,
Creeping earth-bound things that move me
To compassion, ye are mine!

Wind in varied cadence playing
Mystic runes on harps unseen,
Blossom hardily delaying
Where lost summer late hath been,

Shadow drifting o'er the mountain,
Mist blown inward from the sea,
Hidden spring and bubbling fountain,—
Ye are mine and parts of me!

Divine abstraction, shadowy image, dream
More vital than substantial shapes made strong
By all the tireless energies of wrong,—
Who should deny thy being would blaspheme
The power that made thy loveliness supreme,
Lending thee accents of auroral song
To comfort those who unto thee belong—
Though they go down to dark Cocytus' stream.

Patient as Time art thou, eternal one!
Yet who may change thy judgments—or destroy?
The conqueror whom wily Egypt won
Found with life's honeyed draught a bitter blent;
And Hector, fallen by the walls of Troy,

Such gentle awe is in her winsome ways
That, when she greeteth others on the street,
The glibbest tongue in silence long delays,
Nor dare bold eyes her star-like gaze to meet.

Though praises follow her where'er she goes,
Yet with humility she's ever dressed:
She seems from heaven come, so to disclose
The gracious bearing of the immortal blest.

To gaze upon her beauty is to know
The purest sentiment of reverent love;
While he to whom some favor she doth show
May taste before the joys of heaven above.

There was an hour when stars flung out
A magical wild melody,
When all the woods became alive
With elfin dance and revelry.

A holiday for happy hearts!—
The trees shone silver in the moon,
And clapped their gleaming hands to see
Night like a radiant kindled noon!

For suddenly a new world woke
At one new touch of wizardry,
When my love from her mirthful mouth
Spoke words of sweet true love to me.

How clumsy the airs of a Cit,
Pretending to frolic and fun!
Is he for extravagance fit
Who is striving, odd's curse!
To ape one of us,
But never, no never can brush off a dun?

The charger, when switching his tail,
Can sweep the flies off from his rump,
But should they a dray-horse assail,
He forgets that he's cropped,
Of all dignity lopped,
And keeps wagging in vain a bit of a stump!

There lived a lord into the West,
And he had daughters three,
And the youngest has gane to Holyrood,
To be a Queen's Marie.

Marie Hamilton to the kirk has gane,
Wi' ribbons in her hair;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton,
Than ony that were there.

Marie Hamilton to the kirk has gane,
Wi' ribbons on her breist;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton,
Than he listened to the priest.

Marie Hamilton to the Kirk has gane,
Wi' gloves upon her hands;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton,
Than the Queen and a' her lands.

Hold thy life a wingèd seed
Blowing o'er the good earth's mead.
Toss it an thou list, nor rue it.
Wilt thou not? Then time will do it.

Hold thy name a cockle boat
That the seaward rivers float.
Let the river waves leap through it.
Wilt thou not? Then time will do it.

Hold thy love but as a light
Flying through a windy night.
Let the sporting winds pursue it.
Wilt thou not? Then time will do it.

Come up, come up, come high enough and free
To match your strong heart with the eagle's wing,
And come a-chasing after spring,
White and green, a lovely thing.
Or did you think that spring was fled
Like a dryad in a tree
In July's maturity?
Or did you think that spring lay dead
To the locusts' litany?
O, follow where the spirit led,
When a silver-dripping morn,
Sudden witch, around you spread
The lake-leaning alders red,
When on your devoted head,
Dreaming of outriding ships
From the sea's apocalypse,
The last wind of winter sent

Sprinkled silver chiming,
From a high tower;
Is a tall fountain,
Not a shower,—

But would you hear, timing,
Heaven's quarter-hours ring?
Hark to summer—autumn—
Winter—spring…

Afar ! afar! the rosy sails are far,
And far sound all the voices of the world;
Tenderly hither bends the evening star,
And with an uttered hush the waves are curled;
Thy loneliness hath thrown a viewless bar
Across thy life, as when a storm has hurled
The mountain downward, and the shepherd's track
Is lost, and wearily he wanders back.

Must thou then wander while the years decay
And carry with them hopes that feed the soul?
'T was here the little loves were wont to stray;
Now they have vanished with their laughter droll;