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 the flowers Bloom at the wayside shrine. And, while the mad crowd jostles, She, with a visage sweet, Prays where the bisque apostles Are sold on Barclay Street.
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...
