But his muse was also often pensive, and in that mood he softly sings as if to himself alone. Among the best of these poems of reflection are "A Memory," "Alone," "Nebulae," and "Look Up." In them the visions and the melody evoked are often strangely beautiful and haunting; but a depressing undertone like a sigh runs through them all. The misty realm of dream-land lies before me, O Sleep! in thine embrace, What shadows from the past are flitting o'er me, What mocking memories traced; The dim procession, slowly wafted onward, Prolongs the dreary moan That finds an echo in that fated one word, Alone! Alone! From "The Master Thought" and "If Tongues Were Steel," the conclusion might be drawn that a cynic set words to the tunes. The last stanza of the first of these is keenly pointed and sadly near the truth: "Still man, though born a Socrates or Nero, If white with truth, or black with falsehood's taint, Would rather gleam in marble as a hero, Than glow on canvas, pictured as a saint." His intense hatred of shams and fraud of every kind occasionally found indignant voice; as "O God! were all the lies distilled From supple lips in cunning skilled, Hell would be stretched and overfilled; Aye, moulded in one burning curse, 'Twould wreck a shaken world; nay worse! Would crush and damn a universe." But these were transient and rare utterances. "Though far from the east the youth had traveled, he still was Nature's priest." The boy dreamer among the Connecticut hills is now a poet on the Southern prairies. "And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended." "The glory had not yet passed from earth." Nature beckoned him continually, and gladly obedient to the summons, he sought her haunts, caught the visions, heard her minstrelsies, and forgot the while his burdens, his loneliness, and his long sorrow. Many of his poems in whole or part might be cited in proof of this. Most prominent are "The Dying Year," "The South Wind," and "The Night Storm." For its rich setting and striking presentation of a common theme this poem is reproduced entire: THE DYING YEAR. The year is dying as the dolphin dies, Not with the ashen hue, Death's signal color, ere the fading eyes See dimly, darkly through The waxen lids. No pallor creeps along The earth and sky; no tone Floats through the air like a funeral song, Or like a dying groan. The warm rich sunlight gilds the autumn trees Whose gorgeous tints are spread, Each toning each, and fringed with heraldries Of purple, gold, and red The crimson myrtle burns upon its stem As though a heart of fire, The yellow maple, like an oriflamme, Lifts up its banner higher.