When I go forth to greet the glad… Just at the time of opening apple-… When brooks are laughing, winds ar… On babbling hillsides or in warbli… There is an unseen presence that e…

WITH her fair face she made my h… Beneath whose stars and moon and s… I worshiped, praying, having striv… For wealth through which she might… And yet she had no soul: A woman

There is a poetry that speaks Through common things: the grassho… That in the hot weeds creaks and c… Says all of summer to my ear: And in the cricket’s cry I hear

All the roses now are gone, All their glories shed: Here’s a rose that grows not wan, Rose of love to wear upon Your fair breast instead.

She was a queen. 'Midst mutes and… A mameluke, he loved her.—Waves Dashed not more hopelessly the pav… Of her high marble palace-stair Than lashed his love his heart’s d…

A tranquil bar Of rosy twilight under dusk’s firs… A glimmering sound Of whispering waters over grassy g… A sun-sweet smell

A sense of sadness in the golden a… A pensiveness, that has no part in… As if the Season, by some woodlan… Braiding the early blossoms in her… Seeing her loveliness reflected th…

When Spring comes down the wildwo… A crocus in her ear, Sweet in her train, returned with… The Love of Yester-year Will follow, carolling his lay,

Can one resolve and hunt it from o… This love, this god and fiend, tha… Of many a life, in ways no tongue… No mind divine, nor any word impar… Would not one think the slights th…

They’ve torn the old house down, t… Like some kind mother, in this pla… Hugged by its orchard and its wood… Two sturdy children, strong of rac… This formal place makes no appeal.

Awake! the dawn is on the hills! Behold, at her cool throat a rose, Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes, Leaving her steps in daffodils.- Awake! arise! and let me see

Briar and fennel and chinquapin, And rue and ragweed everywhere; The field seemed sick as a soul wi… Or dead of an old despair, Born of an ancient care.

The water-flag and wild cane grow ‘Round banks whereon the sunbeams… Fantastic gold when, on its shores… The wind sighs through the sycamor… In one green angle, just in reach,

Again, in dreams, the veteran hear… The bugle and the drum; Again the boom of battle nears, Again the bullets hum: Again he mounts, again he cheers,

Bee-Bitten in the orchard hung The peach; or, fallen in the weeds… Lay rotting, where still sucked an… The gray bee, boring to its seed’s Pink pulp and honey blackly stung.