Ever the witch in a school-girl’s eyes, The toss and the flutter of flaxen hair, The titter, and blush of a rosy cheek, Are calling away from a world of care. Leading the hours with a hop and a skip, Down through a path where the wind-flowers grow, White are the ribbons tied under her chin, White are the ribbons that flutter and blow. Ever the ring of a roguish laugh, The swing of a rope, or a bonnet blue, And a bright little band on a dainty hand, Where twinkles a stone of a ruby hue, Are daring me climb to the highest limb, Or to jump the brook in a wild-fire race, I’m as free and as light as the tail of a kite, And I’ve two pouting lips for a resting place. A NOCTURNE. How oft I feast with the dearest ones, now dead, Or stroll the gardens through at night, Indifferent to sleep. ’Tis then our footprints turn to gold, For these are Love’s eternal hours, That follow me in loneliness; How often, when the leaves are listening, I clasp white hands, I do not feel, More delicate than touch of moonbeams in the grass; ’Tis then the thoughts arise like incense from a silver bowl. We never hurry through the flowers, Or miss the color of a dreaming rose, Nor kiss too long. But when the careless dawn comes whispering my name, And seeking in the ashes grey, that once were fire, We part; And this is what has made the silences supreme. THE INVISIBLE. The vast unconscious night hangs near and far, Darkness born of day, And sorrow born of joy; But glowing everywhere is the tenderness of God, Sun, moon and stars, and the living consciousness that I am I, supreme; A sense of nearness unto hidden mysteries that overreach the dark, And claim my spirit as their own. ANTIPHONAL. When I am gone the stones will talk of me, The elm-trees speak together in the blast, as now, And weep that I shall never more return; And, be it that the dust shall grasp the throat of prayer, and strangle it, My hands, white-rising from the earth, Will try again to sweep the lyre of song, And quench the voice of death above my grave; The day star in its flight will answer me. LADY MAY. You will know her, by her bonnet with the strings a-blowin’ out, An’ a laylock she’s a wearin’ in her hair; You will know her by the sunshine she’s a scatterin’ about, An’ her whistle in the birches over there. You will know her by her slippers, an’ the color of her eyes, An’ the kisses on her pretty poutin’ lips; You can tell her by her giggle, an’ her look o’ glad surprise, An’ the dewdrops on her rosy finger-tips. She’s a-comin’ up the medder, don’t you see her yaller gown? She’s a-tip toe, an’ a-comin’ right this way, With a trail o’ joy behind her, an’ a new moon for a crown, An’ a--bless your heart! why, howdy, Lady May? A FRAGMENT.