No more the quick delight of youth, No more the sudden pain, I look no more for trust or truth Where greed may compass gain. What, was it I who bared my heart Through unrelenting years, And knew the sting of misery's dart, The tang of sorrow's tears? 'Tis better now, I do not weep, I do not laugh nor care; My soul and spirit half asleep Drift aimless everywhere. We float upon a sluggish stream, We ride no rapids mad, While life is all a tempered dream And every joy half sad. NIGHT Silence, and whirling worlds afar Through all encircling skies. What floods come o'er the spirit's bar, What wondrous thoughts arise. The earth, a mantle falls away, And, winged, we leave the sod; Where shines in its eternal sway The majesty of God. AT LOAFING-HOLT Since I left the city's heat For this sylvan, cool retreat, High upon the hill-side here Where the air is clean and clear, I have lost the urban ways. Mine are calm and tranquil days, Sloping lawns of green are mine, Clustered treasures of the vine; Long forgotten plants I know, Where the best wild berries grow, Where the greens and grasses sprout, When the elders blossom out. Now I am grown weather-wise With the lore of winds and skies. Mine the song whose soft refrain Is the sigh of summer rain. Seek you where the woods are cool, Would you know the shady pool Where, throughout the lazy day, Speckled beauties drowse or play? Would you find in rest or peace Sorrow's permanent release?-- Leave the city, grim and gray, Come with me, ah, come away. Do you fear the winter chill, Deeps of snow upon the hill? 'Tis a mantle, kind and warm, Shielding tender shoots from harm. Do you dread the ice-clad streams,-- They are mirrors for your dreams. Here's a rouse, when summer's past To the raging winter's blast. Let him roar and let him rout, We are armored for the bout. How the logs are glowing, see! Who sings louder, they or he? Could the city be more gay? Burn your bridges! Come away! WHEN A FELLER'S ITCHIN' TO BE SPANKED W'en us fellers stomp around, makin' lots o' noise, Gramma says, "There's certain times come to little boys W'en they need a shingle or the soft side of a plank;" She says "we're a-itchin' for a right good spank." An' she says, "Now thes you wait, It's a-comin'--soon or late, W'en a feller's itchin' fer a spank." W'en a feller's out o' school, you know how he feels, Gramma says we wriggle 'roun' like a lot o' eels. W'y it's like a man that's thes home from out o' jail. What's the use o' scoldin' if we pull Tray's tail? Gramma says, tho', "Thes you wait, It's a-comin'--soon or late, You'se the boys that's itchin' to be spanked."