You don’t know “When they sheared the sheep,” An’ “England had a King;” You never had a trundle-bed; There, now you’ve got the swing. Of course it wiggles when you rock, An’ ’taint plumb anywhere, But ain’t you full o’ happiness, In that old rockin’ chair? OUT OF GETHSAMANE. Give me the common task, The little prayers to say, The common, homely things of life, To love in the old sweet way. Give me a wounded heart, Then bring me the flutes of May, Teach me ye bells of the summer-grass, Then give me your tunes to play. GREETINGS. TO THE SOCIETY OF MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS IN AMERICA. A cup to Elder Brewster, A jewel for his crest, And every Pilgrim “handed down” By him and all the rest. For you, betrothed and plighted, Forever ships at sea, Forever world’s to conquer, And dreams to set you free. Leagues to the East, forever, Your spirit outward bound, Life’s squadrons e’er returning With treasure yet unfound. Your soul the soul of Nation, Your heart the heart of Youth, Remembering our living dead! Your sword the sword of Truth. LOVE O’ MY HEART. Give me the same old road, With its old stone walls and vines, The same old hearth and the same old friends, And the same old love that never ends; Stars in the self-same-sky, And the long lost dreams of bliss, In the old-time way, And my gods of clay, And the same dear lips to kiss. Give me the slender hands, Ah yes, give me the tears, The same old grief, And the withered leaf, The largo of the years. TO A FRIEND. You dread my hand when white and cold, When death has closed my eyes! Will mine be then forbidding lips Because the silence lies So heavily upon your heart? Ah, passing sad, ’twere so, Stay, stay your tears and speak to me, For I shall surely know, And at the daybreak I shall come And touch your face in sleep, And breathe a thought around your soul, So tenderly, so deep, Like unto music it shall be, Though you no sound shall hear, Yet in your dreaming you will smile, And know that I am near. “AUNT SALLY.” Born at Plymouth, June 4th, 1795. O’ I tell you she’s a picter That no artist couldn’t draw, As she sets there in the open kitchen door, With the sunlight streamin’ down On her quaint old-fashioned gown, An’ the shadders stretchin’ in across the floor. An’ the ivy-vines a-twinin’ Lend a sort o’ glory round, When the listless autumn lights lie on the land, There she takes her drowsy nap, With her Bible in her lap, Like as ef she’s claspin’ heaven by the hand. There’s a sort o’ blendin’ beauty ’Twixt her cap-rim an’ her face, An’ the hollyhocks an’ rustlin’ ripened corn, An’ the crickets chirpin’ there, On the soft untroubled air, “It is harvest time, Aunt Sally, summer’s gone.” INTIMACY.