Toll I have paid at the gates of the world,
  The sand I know and the sea;
I have taken the wide and open road,
  With steps unhindered and free;
Yet, like a bell ringing down in my heart,
  My home is calling to me.

IN SOLITUDE

He is not desolate whose ship is sailing
  Over the mystery of an unknown sea,
For some great love with faithfulness unfailing
  Will light the stars to bear him company.

Out in the silence of the mountain passes,
  The heart makes peace and liberty its own—­
The wind that blows across the scented grasses
  Bringing the balm of sleep—­comes not alone.

Beneath the vast illimitable spaces
  Where God has set His jewels in array,
A man may pitch his tent in desert places
  Yet know that heaven is not so far away.

But in the city—­in the lighted city—­
  Where gilded spires point toward the sky,
And fluttering rags and hunger ask for pity,
  Grey Loneliness in cloth-of-gold, goes by.

THE ROBIN

Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
  High on its blossom-rimmed branches aswing,
Here where I listen earth-bound, it seems to me
  You are the voice of the spring.

Herald of Hope to the sad and faint-hearted,
  Piper the gold of the world cannot pay,
Up from the limbo of things long departed
  Memories you bring me to-day.

You are the echo of songs that are over,
  You are the promise of songs that will come,
You know the music, oh, light-winged rover,
  Sealed in the souls of the dumb.

All of the past that we wearily sigh for,
  All of the future for which our hearts long,
All Love would live for, and all Love would die for
  Wordless, you weave in a song.

Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
  My spirit answers each note that you sing,
And while I listen—­earth-bound—­it seems to me
  You are the voice of the spring.

A SONG OF ROSES

’Tis time to sing of roses:  of roses all ablow,
  To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low,
’Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know.

One song for true love’s roses of sweetest deepest red,
  Some heart will wear you faithfully when life itself hath fled,
And for the white rose sing a song—­the white rose for the dead.

And ah! the yellow roses, of brightest, lightest gold,
  King Midas must have touched their leaves in mystic days of old,
Or they were made of sunshine, and gilded, fold by fold.

And the roadside rose, sweet-briar, we would remember thee
  And the cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each passing bee,
You old, old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free.