Let Summer go To other gardens; here we have no need of her. She smiles and beckons, but we take no heed of her, Who love not Summer, but bare boughs and snow. Set the snow free To choke the insolent triumph of the year, With birds that sing as though he still were here, And flowers that blow as if he still could see. Let the rose die-- What ailed the rose to blow? she is not dear to us, Nor all the summer pageant that draws near to us; Let it be over soon, let it go by! Let winter come, With the wild mourning of the wind-tossed boughs To drown the stillness of the empty house To which no more the little feet come home. IV EVENING SONG When all the weary flowers, Worn out with sunlit hours, Droop o’er the garden beds Their little sleepy heads, The dewy dusk on quiet wings comes stealing; And, as the night descends, The shadows troop like friends To bring them healing. So, weary of the light Of life too full and bright, We long for night to fall To wrap us from it all; Then death on dewy wings draws near and holds us, And like a kind friend come To children far from home, With love enfolds us. But when the night is done, Fresh to the morning sun, Their little faces yet With night’s sweet dewdrops wet, The flowers awake to the new day’s new graces; And we, ah! shall we too Turn to the daydawn new Our tear-wet faces? “THIS DESIRABLE MANSION” The long white windows blankly stare Across the sodden, tangled grass, Weed-covered are the pathways where No footsteps ever pass; No whispers wake, no kisses die, No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers, Only the night hears sigh on sigh From ghosts of long-dead hours. None come here now to laugh or weep; The spider spins on stair and hall, And round the windows shadows creep, And loathly creatures crawl. Cold is the hearth; the door is fast; No guest the silent threshold sees Save ghosts out of the happy past,-- And one who is as these. EBB-TIDE Now the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white, Long leaning wings across the sea and land. The waves creep back bequeathing to our sight The treasure-house of their deserted sand, And where the nearer waves curl white and low, Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.