There is no rhyme that is half so sweet
As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;
There is no metre that ’s half so fine
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.—...
|
Can freckled Auguest,—drowsing warm and blonde |
Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, Teach me... |
Through some strange sense of sight or touch I seek not and it comes to me; |
An heritage of hopes and fears A house of clay, the home of Fate, |
Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue |
We have sent him seeds of the melon’s core, Down in the hollow, mid crib and stack, |
The wind IN THE PINES OPPORTUNITY |
With eyes hand-arched he looks into The hill brook sings, incessant stars, |
The song-birds? are they flown away? |