Your heart, your soul were in the wild: You loved to hear the whippoorwill Lament its love, when, dewy mild, The harvest scent made musk the hill. You loved to walk, where oft had trod The red deer, o'er the fallen hush Of Fall's torn leaves, when th' ivy-tod Hung frosty by each berried bush. Still do the whippoorwills complain Above your listless lilies, where The moonlight their white faces stain; Still flows the dreaming streamlet there, Whispering of rest an easeful air.... O music of the falling rain, At night unto her painless rest Sound sweet not sad! and make her fain To feel the wildflowers on her breast Lift moist, pure faces up again To breathe a prayer in fragrance blessed. Thick-pleated beeches long have crossed Old, gnarly arms above her tomb, Where oft I sit and dream her ghost Smiles, like a blossom, through the gloom; Dim as a mist,--that summer lost,-- Of tangled starbeam and perfume. MIRIAM White clouds and buds and birds and bees, Low wind-notes, piped down southern seas, Brought thee, a rose-white offering, A flower-like baby with the spring. She, with her April, gave to thee A soul of winsome witchery; Large, heavenly eyes and sparkling whence Shines the young mind's soft influence; Where love's eternal innocence, And smiles and tears of maidenhood, Gleam with the dreams of hope and good. She, with the dower of her May Gave thee a nature strong to sway Man's higher feelings; and a pride Where all pride's smallness is denied. Limbs wrought of lilies; and a face Made of a rose-bloom; and the grace Of water, that thy limbs express In each chaste billow of thy dress. She, with her dreamy June, brought down Night-deeps of hair that are thy crown; A voice like low winds musical, Or streams that in the moonlight fall O'er bars of pearl; and in thy heart,-- True gold,--she set Joy's counterpart, A gem, that in thy fair face gleams, All radiance, when it speaks or dreams; And in thy soul the jewel Truth Whose beauty is perpetual youth. TWO DAYS I The slanted storm tossed at their feet The frost-nipped autumn leaves; The park's high pines were caked with sleet, And ice-spears armed the eaves. They strolled adown the pillared pines, To part where wet and twisted vines About the gate-posts blew and beat. She watched him riding through the rain Along the river's misty shore, And turned with lips that laughed disdain: "To meet no more!" II