When worn and tired with toil and care,
I homeward wheel my way,
A thought dispels my dark despair
And lights the homeward way;
A vision fair far up the street
With straining eyes I see—
I hurry then my love to meet—
I know she waits for me.

She waits for me, my love, my own,
She greets me with a smile,
I hear again her tender tone,
It shortens every mile
She waits for me, because, you see,
Like lightning she can go—
At every turn she waits for me—
I ride so awful slow!

A silver birch dances at my window.
The faint clouds dimly seen
On the sloped azure are easy to be scattered
When full day's wind sweeps clean.

Call to walk comes as of true nature,
Easy should the body move.
And poetry comes after eight miles' seeking,
Mere right out of mere love.

I WOKE : she had been standing by,
With wonder on her face.
She came toward me, very bright,
As from a blessed place.

She touched me not, but smiling spoke,
And softly as before.
“They gave me drink from some slow stream;
I love thee now no more.”

S HE'S not so fair as many there
But she's as loved as any,
And few you'll find with such a mind
Or such a heart as Nannie:
A maiden grace, a modest face,
A smile to win us ever;
And, she has sense—without pretence—
And good as she is clever!
She's not so fine as some may shine
With feathers, pearls, and laces;
But oh, she's got, what they have not
With all their borrowed graces,
Eyes blue and bright with heaven's light,
That kindle with devotion;
A cheek of rose, a heart that glows
With every sweet emotion!

Beyond the lifted clouds the dark sweeps by,
The stars grow dim in more abundant light,
The paling moon shines faintly down the sky,
And journeys slowly with the ghost of night.
The sun, still hidden like a frightened fawn,
Sheds virgin gleams about the golden feast
Of nature at the freshing fount of dawn—
There is a new day browsing in the east.
O were the dawn a happy herald's song
Of love that capers to the beck of Youth!
O were the day a gladdened chord among
These hollow echoes of a naked truth!
And shall Love never from her largess spare

O love, my love, thou 'rt in the passing crowd,
But none shall see thee save the eyes that burn;
O love, my love, thou singest long and loud,
But none shall hear thee save the ears that yearn.
O love, my love, thou 'rt in the solitude
Of foam-crest oceans and the tangled wood,
But none shall know thee in thy changing mood,
Save minds deep-nurtured in the heart's dark flood.
O love, my love, thou 'rt in the blue-girt sky,
And bound in murmurs of the sighing breeze,
But none shall feel thy lilting melody,

Gray veils of dusk bestrewed with purple threads
Hold earth, a-fevered, in their soothing power.
Soft coronals of twilight round our heads,
Silent we sit and dream this holy hour.
Night-winds are stirring thru the stately pines,
Shrouded in shadows 'gainst the star-lit sky;
Night-birds are singing in the fragrant vines,
Soft to their mates an eery lover's cry.
'Tis then I see thee most, and seeing love thee,
Knowing the dusk but beauty's trailing gown;
'Tis then I feel and know the stars above thee,
Jewels to garnish my love's golden crown.

If Aaron's sons, who so profanely came
Up to the altar with unhallowed flame,
Were justly by avenging fire consum'd,
Who with strange fire to tempt their God presum'd;
What flames are due to their more daring crimes,
Who rob his altar to enrich their rhimes?
Steal holy fire, then to an idol turn,
And incense to it most profanely burn;
Offer love's noblest flame, by heaven inspir'd,
By heaven alone deserv'd, by heaven desir'd,
To some vile heap of flesh and blood, that must
In a few moments turn to worms and dust!
The language of the temple is employ'd

There are three pines about the door,
No bird will light in save the crow,
Or the chill-hearted monkish owl,
Whose eyes peer out beneath his cowl.

Ascetic through the silent night
He keeps it; while the scornful crow
Its desolation keeps by day—
Its gloom … where passion once held sway.

And blood-guilt is the cause men give
Of its forsakenness and rack:
Love here once cut its own white throat;
And Nature thus has taken note.

And yet for no unfaithfulness
Or perfidy did the two die.
But so dull were they, each preferred

I love you for your brownness
And the rounded darkness of your breast.
I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice
And shadows where your wayward eye-lids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens
Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk
And something of the shackled slave
Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow's mate,
Keep all you have of queenliness,
Forgetting that you once were slave,
And let your full lips laugh at Fate!