Old Robert draws the backbrand in, The green logs steam and spit; The half-awakened sparrows flit From the riddled thatch; and owls begin To whoo from the gable-slit. Yes; far and nigh things seem to know Sweet scenes are impending here; That all is prepared; that the hour is near For welcomes, fellowships, and flow Of sally, song, and cheer; That spigots are pulled and viols strung; That soon will arise the sound Of measures trod to tunes renowned; That She will return in Love’s low tongue My vows as we wheel around. MISCONCEPTION I BUSIED myself to find a sure Snug hermitage That should preserve my Love secure From the world’s rage; Where no unseemly saturnals, Or strident traffic-roars, Or hum of intervolved cabals Should echo at her doors. I laboured that the diurnal spin Of vanities Should not contrive to suck her in By dark degrees, And cunningly operate to blur Sweet teachings I had begun; And then I went full-heart to her To expound the glad deeds done. She looked at me, and said thereto With a pitying smile, “And _this_ is what has busied you So long a while? O poor exhausted one, I see You have worn you old and thin For naught! Those moils you fear for me I find most pleasure in!” THE VOICE OF THE THORN I WHEN the thorn on the down Quivers naked and cold, And the mid-aged and old Pace the path there to town, In these words dry and drear It seems to them sighing: “O winter is trying To sojourners here!” II When it stands fully tressed On a hot summer day, And the ewes there astray Find its shade a sweet rest, By the breath of the breeze It inquires of each farer: “Who would not be sharer Of shadow with these?” III But by day or by night, And in winter or summer, Should I be the comer Along that lone height, In its voicing to me Only one speech is spoken: “Here once was nigh broken A heart, and by thee.” FROM HER IN THE COUNTRY I THOUGHT and thought of thy crass clanging town To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill, I held my heart in bond, and tethered down Fancy to where I was, by force of will. I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this wood, One little bud is far more sweet to me Than all man’s urban shows; and then I stood Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree; And strove to feel my nature brought it forth Of instinct, or no rural maid was I; But it was vain; for I could not see worth Enough around to charm a midge or fly, And mused again on city din and sin, Longing to madness I might move therein! 16 W. P. V., 1866. HER CONFESSION