Thou, born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come, on vagrant wing?
Does Bacchus tempting seem,—
Did he for you this glass prepare?
Will I admit you to a share?
Did storms harass or foes perplex,
Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay,—
Did wars distress, or labors vex,...
Hit ’s a mighty fur ways up de Far’well Lane,
My honey, my love!
You may ax Mister Crow, you may ax Mister Crane,
My honey, my love!
Dey ’ll make you a bow, en dey ’ll tell you de same,
My honey, my love!
Hit’s a mighty fur ways fer ter go in de night,
My honey, my love!
My honey, my love,...
How slight a thing may set one’s fancy drifting
Upon the dead sea of the Past!—A view—
Sometimes an odor—or a rooster lifting
A far-off “Ooh! ooh-ooh!”
And suddenly we find ourselves astray
In some wood’s-pasture of the Long Ago,—
Or idly dream again upon a day
Of rest we used to know.
I bit an apple but a moment since...
Whipp’will ’s singin’ to de moon,—
Go sleep, ma honey, m—m.
He sing a pow’ful mo’nful tune,
Go sleep, ma honey, m—m.
De day bird ’s sleepin’ on his nes’,
He know it time to take a res’,
An’ he gwine ter do his lebel bes’,—
Go sleep, ma honey, m—m.
Old banjo ’s laid away,—
Go sleep, ma honey, m—m....
Whipp’will ’s singin’ to de moon,—
Go sleep, ma honey, m—m.
He sing a pow’ful mo’nful tune,
Go sleep, ma honey, m—m.
De day bird ’s sleepin’ on his nes’,
He know it time to take a res’,
An’ he gwine ter do his lebel bes’,—
Go sleep, ma honey, m—m.
Old banjo ’s laid away,—
Go sleep, ma...
How slight a thing may set one’s fancy drifting
Upon the dead sea of the Past!—A view—
Sometimes an odor—or a rooster lifting
A far-off “Ooh! ooh-ooh!”
And suddenly we find ourselves astray
In some wood’s-pasture of the Long Ago,—
Or idly dream again upon a day
Of rest we used to know.
I bit an apple but a moment since...
Where hints of racy sap and gum
Out of the old dark forest come;
Where birds their beaks like hammers wield,
And pith is pierced, and bark is peeled;
Where the green walnut’s outer rind
Gives precious bitterness to the wind;—
There lurks the sweet creative power,
As lurks the honey in the flower.
In winter’s bud that...
Oh, honey of an hour,
I never knew thy power,
Prohibit me
Till my minutest dower,
My unfrequented flower,
Deserving be.
The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee ;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.
