the ghosts of flowers went sailing Through the dreamy autumn air,— The gossamer wings of the milkweed brown, And the sheeny silk of the thistle-down; But there was no bewailing, And never a hint of despair. From the mountain-ash was swinging A gray, deserted nest; Scarlet berries where eggs had been; Softly the flower-wraiths floated in: And the brook and breeze were singing When the sun sank down in the west.
We wondered why he always turned aside When mirth and gladness filled the brimming days: Who else so fit as he for pleasure’s ways? Men thought him frozen by a selfish pride; But that his voice was music none denied, Or that his smile was like the sun’s warm rays. One day upon the sands he spoke...
In shining groups, each stem a pearly ray, Weird flecks of light within the shadowed wood, They dwell aloof, a spotless sisterhood. No Angelus, except the wild bird’s lay, Awakes these forest nuns; yet night and day Their heads are bent, as if in prayerful mood. A touch will mar their snow, and...
The fields were silent, and the woodland drear, The moon had set, and clouds hid all the stars; And blindly, when a footfall met my ear, I reached across the bars. And swift as thought this hand was clasped in thine, Though darkness hung around us and above; Not guided by uncertain...
the ghosts of flowers went sailing Through the dreamy autumn air,— The gossamer wings of the milkweed brown, And the sheeny silk of the thistle-down; But there was no bewailing, And never a hint of despair. From the mountain-ash was swinging A gray, deserted nest; Scarlet...
