Out in the misty moonlight The first snowflakes I see, As they frolic among the leafless Limbs of the apple-tree. Faintly they seem to whisper, As round the boughs they wing: “We are the ghosts of the blossoms That died in the early spring.”
A bluebird lives in yonder tree, Likewise a little chickadee, In two woodpeckers’ nests—rent free! There, where the weeping willow weeps, A dainty housewren sweetly cheeps— From an old oriole’s nest she peeps. I see the English sparrow tilt Upon the limb with sun begilt,— His nest an ancient...
Misshapen, black, unlovely to the sight, O mute companion of the murky mole, You must feel overjoyed to have a white, Imperious, dainty lily for a soul.
Out in the misty moonlight The first snowflakes I see, As they frolic among the leafless Limbs of the apple-tree. Faintly they seem to whisper, As round the boughs they wing: “We are the ghosts of the blossoms That died in the early spring.”
A pale Italian peasant, Beside the dusty way, Upon this morning pleasant Kneels in the sun to pray. Silent in her devotion, With fervent glance she pleads; Her fingers’ only motion, Telling her amber beads. Dreaming of ilex bowers Beyond the purple brine, Once more she sees...
