'Our little babe,' each said, 'shall be Like unto thee' - 'Like unto thee!' 'Her mother's' - 'Nay, his father's' - 'eyes,' 'Dear curls like thine' - but each replies, 'As thine, all thine, and nought of me.'...
I wish that I could understand The moving marvel of my Hand; I watch my fingers turn and twist, The supple bending of my wrist, The dainty touch of finger-tip, The steel intensity of grip;...
Of all the fountains that poets sing, Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring, Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth, Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth, In short, of all the springs of Time...
Come, if thou'rt cold to Summer's charms, Her clouds of green, her starry flowers, And let this bird, this wandering bird, Make his fine wonder yours; He, hiding in the leaves so green,...
But two miles more, and then we rest! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way; Sit then, awhile, here in this wood,...
The low bay melts into a ring of silver, And slips it on the shore's reluctant finger, Though in an hour the tide will turn, will tremble, Forsaking her because the moon persuades him....
Like some wild child that laughs and weeps, Impatient of its mother's arms, The wood brook from the hillside leaps, Eager to reach the neighboring farms: Complaining crystal in its throat...
The sky is like an envelope, One of those blue official things; And, sealing it, to mock our hope, The moon, a silver wafer, clings. What shall we find when death gives leave...
Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods, Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes, The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show...
"Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden, Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array, Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden,...
"This is a brightsome blaze you've lit good friend, to-night!" " Aye, it has been the bleakest spring I have felt for years, And nought compares with cloven logs to keep alight:...
Brother, lost brother! Thou of mine ancient kin! Thou of the swift will that no ponderings smother! The dumb life in me fumbles out to the shade Thou lurkest in. In vain--evasive ever through the glade...
In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, I am mistress, no mother have I; Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good, And kind is my lover hard by;...