And then she called me: in my ears Her voice was music; and it led My sad soul back with all its fears; Recalled my spirit that had fled.-- And in my dream it seemed she said, "Our hearts keep true through all the years;" And on my face I felt the tears, The blinding tears of her long dead. DEFICIENCY Ah, God! were I away, away By woodland-belted hills! There might be more in this bright day Than my poor spirit thrills. The elder coppice, banks of blooms; The spicewood brush; the field Of tumbled clover, and perfumes Hot, weedy pastures yield. The old rail-fence, whose angles hold Bright briar and sassafras; Sweet, priceless wildflowers, blue and gold, Starred through the moss and grass. The ragged path that winds unto Lone, bird-melodious nooks, Through brambles to the shade and dew Of rocks and woody brooks. To see the minnows flash and gleam Like sparkling prisms; all Shoot in gray schools adown the stream Let but a dead leaf fall! To feel the buoyance and delight Of floating, feathered seeds! Capricious wisps of wandering white Born of silk-bearing weeds. Ah, God! were I away, away Among wild woods and birds, There were more soul in this bright day Than one could bless with words. MIDSUMMER The red blood stings through her cheeks and clings In their tan with a fever that lightens; And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs In her dark eyes dusks and brightens: Her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings With the youths in the sinewy games, When the hot wind sings through the hair it flings, And the circus roars hoarse with their names, As they fly to the goal that flames. Her voice is as deep as the waters that sweep Through the musical reeds of a river; A voice as of reapers who bind and reap, With the ring of curved scythes that quiver: A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heap With crimson and gold the ground; That whispers like sleep, till the briars weep Their berries, all ruby round, And vineyards are purple-crowned. Right sweet is the beat of her glowing feet, And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious; The creating might of her hands of heat As a god's or a goddess's spacious: The odorous blood in her heart a-beat Is rich with a perishless fire; And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seat Of a mother who never will tire, While the world has a breath to suspire.