Rather a draught of Songs Venetian, cheerful, With southern wantonness and color-wonders,-- Rather "Two Shots" (although they make us fearful) Against our shallow breeding and its blunders. Spring's herald, hail! come from the forest's choir, From ocean's roar, from armèd hosts and grim! Though sometimes carelessly you struck the lyre,-- Where rich growth is, one can the rank shoots trim. The small trolls jeer the gestures of a giant, I love you _so_,--unique and self-reliant. + A MEETING (See Note 71) ... O'er uplands fresh swift sped my sleigh ... A light snow fell; along the way Stood firs and birches slender. The former pondered deep, alone, The latter laughed, their white boughs shone;-- All brings a picture tender. So light and free is now the air; Of all its burdens stripped it bare The snow with playful sally. I glimpse behind its veil so thin A landscape gay, and high within A snow-peak o'er the valley. But from the border white and brown, Where'er I look, there's peeping down A face ... but whose, whose is it? I bore my gaze 'neath cap and brim And see the snowflakes swarm and swim;-- Will some one here me visit? A star fell on my glove ... right here ... And here again ... its unlike peer; ... They will with riddles pose me. And smiles that in the air abound From eyes so good ... I look around ... 'T is memory besnows me. The stars spin fine their filigree, Can hidden spirits in it be? There haunts me something awing ... You finer birch, you snow unstained, You purer air,--a soul you've gained? Who is it here now drawing His features dear in nature's face, In all this fascinating grace, In falling stars that cheat me,-- In these white gleams that finely glance, In all this silent rhythmic dance? ... Hans Brecke!--comes to meet me. THE POET (See Note 72) The poet does the prophet's deeds; In times of need with new life pregnant, When strife and suffering are regnant, His faith with light ideal leads. The past its heroes round him posts, He rallies now the present's hosts, The future opes Before his eyes, Its pictured hopes He prophesies. Ever his people's forces vernal The poet frees,--by right eternal. He turns the people's trust to doubt Of heathendom and Moloch-terror; 'Neath thought of God, cold-gray with error, He sees grow green each fresh, new sprout. Set free, these spread abroad, above, Bear fruit of power and of love In each man's soul, And make it warm And make it whole, In wrath transform, Till light and courage fill the nation: In _life_ is God's best revelation.