AFTER THE WINTER

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves,
  And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
  Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
  Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove
  And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill
  Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
  And works the droning bee. 
And we will build a lonely nest
  Beside an open glade,
And there forever will we rest,
  O love—­O nut-brown maid!

SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver speckled sky,
For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,
Wasting the golden hours indoors,
Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,
The stars too gloriously bright,
For me to spend the evening hours,
When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,
Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.

THE TIRED WORKER

O whisper, O my soul!—­the afternoon
Is waning into evening—­whisper soft! 
Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon
From out its misty veil will swing aloft! 
Be patient, weary body, soon the night
Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet,
And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite
To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. 
The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine;
Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. 
But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine? 
O dawn!  O dreaded dawn!  O let me rest! 
Weary my veins, my brain, my life,—­have pity! 
No!  Once again the hard, the ugly city.

THE BARRIER

I must not gaze at them although
  Your eyes are dawning day;
I must not watch you as you go
  Your sun-illumined way;

I hear but I must never heed
  The fascinating note,
Which, fluting like a river-reed,
  Comes from your trembling throat;

I must not see upon your face
  Love’s softly glowing spark;
For there’s the barrier of race,
  You’re fair and I am dark.

TO O. E. A.

Your voice is the color of a robin’s breast,
  And there’s a sweet sob in it like rain—­still rain in the night. 
Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest,
  The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight
Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat. 
    I’m afraid of your eyes, they’re so bold,
    Searching me through, reading