Swing out ye bells from your signal towers! Swing out with your tongues of gold! And mingle your strain, O ye fields of grain, With a tenderness yet untold, Till it reach the throngs on those peaks of light Where the hosts of the holy stand, And their voices wake for the old love’s sake-- For the loves of life’s yester-land. SUNDOWN ON THE MARSHES. The tide is ebbing out to sea; Much as an old-time tapestry, Bayeux or Gobelin, it might be, The wizard weavers weave for me, In strangely picturesque design, Of colors rare that intertwine Like those of Botticelli’s “Spring,” Or tints that blend a wood-drake’s wing, With rose-tipped grasses, amethyst, And blazing jewels, Shylock missed; While here and there, as if ’twere worn By splash of spray, the threads are torn, Or, as ’twere some old water-witch, Grown weary eyed, had dropped a stitch, Appears a patch of faded stuff, Of fretted, dingy-brown, or buff, With nets of fisher-folk, in spots, Entangled with the lobster-pots. But see! a bit of old brocade, A water-kelpie must have made; And there’s a garb of quaintest kind Some Pilgrim farer left behind. Out where the shallows turn to blood, Lost in the trailing weeds and mud, A crimson crescent blinks at me-- A vagabond who loves the sea-- While mythic muse with ancient loom, Who knows where Clytie’s flowers bloom, Has wrought of weeds and tinsel string, A garment suited to a king. And look! some oracle of time-- Some sorcerer of ooze and slime-- Has left a panoply most rare For lazy-footed night to wear, With girdle of a sombre dye, And hung it on a rock to dry, Where, flushed with slumber, drones a stream To charm some lonely mermaid’s dream. And this my heritage, more fair Than mosque that ever called to prayer A Moslem, bids me kneel and pray; These simple words are all I say-- “I’ve been with God an hour or two”-- A shadow tiptoes down the blue; And like a mother wraps the sea In stillness of eternity. Marshfield, August 16, 1920. NEIGHBORS. I love to think o’ days what’s been ’th all the neighbors droppin’ in To spend the day, or arternoon, ’n in the evenin’ have a tune Like Mear or some such ainshunt air, ’th cider, ’n’ doughnuts; I declare It seems jest like they’s settin’ there A-bindin’ shoes, or knittin’ lace, Eround that old big fireplace, Afore some blazin’ apple bough. There’s too much cultivation now! I love to think o’ days what’s been-- “Good night--good night, run in agin’.” A PASTORAL. The little village of my heart Hath tangled lanes and roses, And paths of musky hollyhocks Wherein the wild bee noses. ’Tis summer, summer everywhere, And drowsy pipes are playing, Some little peace-dream all the while, Where sweethearts go a-straying.