It was too lonely for her there, And too wild, And since there were but two of them, And no child, And work was little in the house, She was free, And followed where he furrowed field, Or felled tree. She rested on a log and tossed The fresh chips, With a song only to herself On her lips. And once she went to break a bough Of black alder. She strayed so far she scarcely heard When he called her -- And didn't answer -- didn't speak -- Or return. She stood, and then she ran and hid In the fern. He never found her, though he looked Everywhere, And he asked at her mother's house Was she there. Sudden and swift and light as that The ties gave, And he learned of finalities Besides the grave. A Love Song. [Theodosia Garrison] My love it should be silent, being deep -- And being very peaceful should be still -- Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep -- Serenely silent as some mighty hill. Yet is my love so great it needs must fill With very joy the inmost heart of me, The joy of dancing branches on the hill The joy of leaping waves upon the sea. Envoi. [Josephine Preston Peabody] Beloved, till the day break, Leave wide the little door; And bless, to lack and longing, Our brimming more-and-more. Is love a scanted portion, That we should hoard thereof? -- Oh, call unto the deserts, Beloved and my Love! Our Little House. [Thomas Walsh] Our little house upon the hill In winter time is strangely still; The roof tree, bare of leaves, stands high, A candelabrum for the sky, And down below the lamplights glow, And ours makes answer o'er the snow. Our little house upon the hill In summer time strange voices fill; With ceaseless rustle of the leaves, And birds that twitter in the eaves, And all the vines entangled so The village lights no longer show. Our little house upon the hill Is just the house of Jack and Jill, And whether showing or unseen, Hid behind its leafy screen; There's a star that points it out When the lamp lights are in doubt. The Homeland. [Dana Burnet] My land was the west land; my home was on the hill, I never think of my land but it makes my heart to thrill; I never smell the west wind that blows the golden skies, But old desire is in my feet and dreams are in my eyes. My home crowned the high land; it had a stately grace. I never think of my land but I see my mother's face; I never smell the west wind that blows the silver ships But old delight is in my heart and mirth is on my lips. My land was a high land; my home was near the skies. I never think of my land but a light is in my eyes; I never smell the west wind that blows the summer rain -- But I am at my mother's knee, a little lad again. Cradle Song. [Josephine Preston Peabody] I Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice When at last a little boy's Cheek lies heavy as a rose And his eyelids close?