O restless and fitful, those wandering airs, As the sad breezes sigh to the rain, Then dying, evasively mock at our prayers, For silent, we hear them again! ’Tis the music of elfland that rings in our ears With its haunting notes witching and low, Like the voices of friends that have gone with the years Or the echoes of songs long ago. MIDNIGHT In the dead watches of the night As time drifts by on endless flight, Drowsing upon our couch we hear A distant clock sound faint but clear, And chiming from its lonely tower Ring out the solemn midnight hour. That warning stirs the unquiet air A golden day has flown - but where? Another burns to greet the dawn But one day has forever gone - And pendulum and iron tongue Their mournful requiem have sung. Aghast the present moment flies Midway between eternities, As, winging on without a stay Tomorrow flees from yesterday, And vanished moments that have been Will never come to us again! THE GOLDEN ROD What dazzling shape is this that seems to rise At the command Of some magician, till it glorifies The barren sand? A stately canopy for some proud elve! And that rich sheen The grand creation of the gnomes that delve Grotesque, unseen, In caverns dim. There while the forges ring To blow on blow Those humble artisans are burnishing That wondrous glow! How gorgeously the molten yellow gleams As they combine The sand’s bright ore with sunlight’s minted beams In rare design. Until the wealth that jade green leaves disguise And buds enfold! Wells upward with resplendent ecstasies In jets of gold! Fountains that o’er the sterile desert play Erect and tall With pendent droplets from their golden spray That never fall. Oases of enchantment where the bees And beetles come, To mingle with the murmur of the seas Their drowsy hum. Such splendor glitters in each regal nod Of gilded bloom We pause in doubt; is this the golden rod, Or seraph’s plume? A scepter, or perchance a magic wand For elfin kings? Our fancy pictures in each jewelled frond Fantastic things. And still our wonder grows, and a vague fear Of regions banned Steals o’er us--lest our footsteps draw too near To fairyland! WILD ROSES