Who loves a tree he loves the life that springs in star and clod;
He loves the love that gilds the clouds and greens the April sod;
He loves the Wide Beneficence. His soul takes hold on God.

A tree is one of nature's words, a word of peace to man,
A word that tells of central strength from whence all things began,
A word to preach tranquillity to all our restless clan.

Ah, bare must be the shadeless ways, and bleak the path must be,
Of him who, having open eyes, has never learned to see,
And so has never learned to love the beauty of a tree.

GOOD-NIGHT ! good-night! for the day is done,
And the shadow-ships lie long
Where the moon shines dim o'er the curved sea's rim,
And the wild wind sings its song.

The wild wind sings to the sea, my love—
Sing, heart of my heart, to me,
While the waves' dull roar on the sounding shore
Fills up the melody;

Till I rest in peace in thine arms, my love;
Till slumber has loosed the bars,
And my thought flies forth, as a gull to the north,
To wander among the stars.

The limbs remember blood and fire:
a hurt that's done may in the mind
sink and lose identity;

for the mind has reasons of its own
for covering with an eyeless mask
marks of mortality.

The limbs remember fire and joy
and flesh to flesh is benison
of entity;

but the mind has reasons of its own
for circumventing life and love's

Tho' nought, amid these darkened groves,
But various groups of death appear,
Scar'd at the sight, tho' fly the Loves,
And Sickness saddens all the year,

Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay,
Your sense and manners charm us so,
E'en sick'ning Sorrow's self looks gay,
And smiles amid the wreck of woe.

Roses in bosom, wine in hand And she I love submiss is;
The Sultan of the world my slave On such a day as this is.

Bring ye no candles; for, to night, In this our congregation,
The moon of the Friend's cheek's at full And other light dismisses.

Wine in our order lawful is; But, in thy face's absence,
O cypress-statured rose, the cup Forbidden and amiss is.

No perfumes for our banquet mix; For, from thy tress, each moment,
Borne to the nostrils of our soul The scent of ambergris is.

Mine ear is all ta'en up with wail Of reed and clang of harpstrings;

O Slain for love of me, canst Thou be cold,
Be cold and far away in my distress:
Is Thy love also changed growing less and less
That carried me thro' all the days of old?—
O Slain for love of me, O Love untold,
See how I flag and fail thro' weariness:
I flag, while sleepless foes dog me and press
On me; behold O Lord, O Love behold.
I am sick for home, the home of love indeed;
I am sick for Love, that dearest name for Thee:
Thou Who hast bled, see how my heart doth bleed;
Open Thy bleeding Side and let me in;

In the still of the night,
As I gaze from my window
At the moon in its flight,
My thoughts all stray to you.
In the still of the night,
While the world is in slumber,
Oh, the times without number,
Darling, when I say to you,
“Do you love me as I love you?
Are you my life-to-be, my dream come true?”
Or will this dream of mine
Fade out of sight
Like the moon
Growing dim
On the rim
Of the hill
In the chill,
Still

Who wins his Love shall lose her,
—Who loses her shall gain,
For still the spirit wooes her,
—A soul without a stain;
And Memory still pursues her
—With longings not in vain!

He loses her who gains her,
—Who watches day by day
The dust of time that stains her,
—The griefs that leave her gray,
The flesh that yet enchains her
—Whose grace hath passed away!

Oh, happier he who gains not
—The Love some seem to gain:
The joy that custom stains not
—Shall still with him remain,
The loveliness that wanes not,
—The Love that ne'er can wane.

The lovely years went lightly by
As April flowers go,
And often you would laugh or cry
To see how I could grow.

The lonely years drift by in rain,
As leaves in Autumn do.
I long, when we shall meet again,
To be as tall as you.

Well , if the thing is over, better it is for me,
The lad was ever a rover, loving and laughing free,
Far too clever a lover not to be having still
A lass in the town and a lass by the road and a lass by the farther hill—
Love on the field and love on the path and love in the woody glen—
(Lad, will I never see you, never your face again?)

Ay, if the thing is ending now I'll be getting rest,
Saying my prayers and bending down to be stilled and blest,
Never the days are sending hope till my heart is sore