Like a weird invisible spirit, It swooped in its airy flight; And the earth, as the stress drew near it, Quailed as in mute affright; The grass in the green fields quivered— The waves of the smitten brook Chillily shuddered and shivered, And the reeds bowed down and shook. Like a sorrowful miserere It sobbed, and it blew and blew, Till the leaves on the trees looked weary, And my prayers were weary, too; And then, like the sunshine’s glimmer That failed in the awful strain, All the hope of my eyes grew dimmer In a spatter of spiteful rain. MY HENRY He’s jes a great, big, awk’ard, hulkin’ Feller,—humped, and sorto’ sulkin’- Like, and ruther still-appearin’— Kind-as-ef he wuzn’t keerin’ Whether school helt out er not— That’s my Henry, to a dot! Allus kindo’ liked him—whether Childern, er growed-up together! Fifteen year’ ago and better, ’Fore he ever knowed a letter, Run acrosst the little fool In my Primer-class at school. When the Teacher wuzn’t lookin’, He’d be th’owin’ wads; er crookin’ Pins; er sprinklin’ pepper, more’n Likely, on the stove; er borin’ Gimlet-holes up thue his desk— Nothin’ _that_ boy wouldn’t resk! But, somehow, as I was goin’ On to say, he seemed so knowin’, _Other_ ways, and cute and cunnin’— Allus wuz a notion runnin’ Thue my giddy, fool-head he Jes had be’n cut out fer me! Don’t go much on _prophesyin’_, But last night whilse I wuz fryin’ Supper, with that man a-pitchin’ Little Marthy round the kitchen, Think-says-I, “Them baby’s eyes Is my Henry’s, jes p’cise!” THE SONG I NEVER SING As when in dreams we sometimes hear A melody so faint and fine And musically sweet and clear, It flavors all the atmosphere With harmony divine,— So, often in my waking dreams, I hear a melody that seems Like fairy voices whispering To me the song I never sing. Sometimes when brooding o’er the years My lavish youth has thrown away— When all the glowing past appears But as a mirage that my tears Have crumbled to decay,— I thrill to find the ache and pain Of my remorse is stilled again, As, forward bent and listening, I hear the song I never sing. A murmuring of rhythmic words, Adrift on tunes whose currents flow Melodious with the trill of birds, And far-off lowing of the herds In lands of long ago; And every sound the truant loves Comes to me like the coo of doves When first in blooming fields of Spring I heard the song I never sing.