Greater than memory of Achilles or Ulysses, More, more by far to thee than tomb of Alexander, Those cart loads of old charnel ashes, scales and splints of mouldy bones, Once living men--once resolute courage, aspiration, strength, The stepping stones to thee to-day and here, America. The First Dandelion Simple and fresh and fair from winter’s close emerging, As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics, had ever been, Forth from its sunny nook of shelter’d grass--innocent, golden, calm as the dawn, The spring’s first dandelion shows its trustful face. America Centre of equal daughters, equal sons, All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old, Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich, Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love, A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother, Chair’d in the adamant of Time. Memories How sweet the silent backward tracings! The wanderings as in dreams--the meditation of old times resumed --their loves, joys, persons, voyages. To-Day and Thee The appointed winners in a long-stretch’d game; The course of Time and nations--Egypt, India, Greece and Rome; The past entire, with all its heroes, histories, arts, experiments, Its store of songs, inventions, voyages, teachers, books, Garner’d for now and thee--To think of it! The heirdom all converged in thee! After the Dazzle of Day After the dazzle of day is gone, Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars; After the clangor of organ majestic, or chorus, or perfect band, Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true. Abraham Lincoln, Born Feb. 12, 1809 To-day, from each and all, a breath of prayer--a pulse of thought, To memory of Him--to birth of Him. Out of May’s Shows Selected Apple orchards, the trees all cover’d with blossoms; Wheat fields carpeted far and near in vital emerald green; The eternal, exhaustless freshness of each early morning; The yellow, golden, transparent haze of the warm afternoon sun; The aspiring lilac bushes with profuse purple or white flowers. Halcyon Days Not from successful love alone, Nor wealth, nor honor’d middle age, nor victories of politics or war; But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like freshier, balmier air, As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs really finish’d and indolent-ripe on the tree, Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all! The brooding and blissful halcyon days! FANCIES AT NAVESINK [I] The Pilot in the Mist