Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf; The wind, that shakes the blossom's sheaf; The slender sound of water lone, That makes a harp-string of some stone, And now a wood-bird's twilight moan, Seem whisp'rings there of grief. Her garden, where the lilacs grew, Where, on old walls, old roses blew, Head-heavy with their mellow musk, Where, when the beetle's drone was husk, She lingered in the dying dusk, No more shall know that knew. Her orchard,--where the Spring and she Stood listening to each bird and bee,-- That, from its fragrant firmament, Snowed blossoms on her as she went, (A blossom with their blossoms blent) No more her face shall see. White moons may come, white moons may go, She sleeps where early blossoms blow; Around her headstone many a seed Shall sow itself; and briar and weed Shall grow to hide it from men's heed, And none will care or know. THE OLD BYWAY Its rotting fence one scarcely sees Through sumac and wild blackberries. Thick elder and the bramble-rose, Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees Hang droning in repose. The little lizards lie all day Gray on its rocks of lichen-gray; And there, gay Ariels of the sun, The butterflies make bright its way, And paths where chipmunks run. Its lyric there the redbird lifts, While, overhead, the swallow drifts 'Neath sun-soaked clouds of palest cream,-- In which the wind makes azure rifts,-- And there the wood-doves dream. The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound 'Mid weeds and briars that hedge it round; And in its grass-grown ruts,--where stirs The harmless snake,--mole-crickets sound; O'erhead the locust whirs. At evening, when the sad west turns To lonely night a cheek that burns, The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing; And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns The wind wakes, whispering. THE WOODPATH Here Spring her first frail violets blows; Broadcast her whitest wind-flowers sows Through starry mosses amber-fair, And fronded ferns and briar-rose, Hart's-tongue and maidenhair. Here fungus life is beautiful; Slim mushroom and the thick toadstool,-- As various colored as are blooms,-- Dot their damp cones through shadows cool, And breathe forth rain perfumes. Here stray the wandering cows to rest; The calling cat-bird builds its nest In spicewood bushes dark and deep; Here raps the woodpecker its best, And here young rabbits leap. Beech, oak, and cedar; hickories; The pawpaw and persimmon trees; And tangled vines and sumac-brush, Make dark the daylight, where the bees Drone, and the wood-springs gush.