All the ways that lead to Somewhere Echo with the hurrying feet Of the Struggling and the Striving, But the way I find so sweet Bids me dream and bids me linger, Joy and Beauty are its goal, -- On the path that leads to Nowhere I have sometimes found my soul! Days. [Karle Wilson Baker] Some days my thoughts are just cocoons -- all cold, and dull, and blind, They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind; And other days they drift and shine -- such free and flying things! I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings. Ellis Park. [Helen Hoyt] Little park that I pass through, I carry off a piece of you Every morning hurrying down To my work-day in the town; Carry you for country there To make the city ways more fair. I take your trees, And your breeze, Your greenness, Your cleanness, Some of your shade, some of your sky, Some of your calm as I go by; Your flowers to trim The pavements grim; Your space for room in the jostled street And grass for carpet to my feet. Your fountains take and sweet bird calls To sing me from my office walls. All that I can see I carry off with me. But you never miss my theft, So much treasure you have left. As I find you, fresh at morning, So I find you, home returning -- Nothing lacking from your grace. All your riches wait in place For me to borrow On the morrow. Do you hear this praise of you, Little park that I pass through? A Note from the Pipes. [Leonora Speyer] Pan, blow your pipes and I will be Your fern, your pool, your dream, your tree! I heard you play, caught your swift eye, "A pretty melody!" called I, "Hail, Pan!" And sought to pass you by. Now blow your pipes and I will sing To your sure lips' accompanying! Wild God, who lifted me from earth, Who taught me freedom, wisdom, mirth, Immortalized my body's worth, -- Blow, blow your pipes! And from afar I'll come -- I'll be your bird, your star, Your wood, your nymph, your kiss, your rhyme, And all your godlike summer-time! Afternoon on a Hill. [Edna St. Vincent Millay] I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise. And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down! Open Windows. [Sara Teasdale] Out of the window a sea of green trees Lift their soft boughs like the arms of a dancer; They beckon and call me, "Come out in the sun!" But I cannot answer. I am alone with Weakness and Pain, Sick abed and June is going, I cannot keep her, she hurries by With the silver-green of her garments blowing. Men and women pass in the street Glad of the shining sapphire weather, But we know more of it than they, Pain and I together. They are the runners in the sun, Breathless and blinded by the race, But we are watchers in the shade Who speak with Wonder face to face.