Among the Millet
An October Sunset
Spring on the River
Why do ye call the Poet lonely
Among the Timothy
Morning on the Lievres
Lament of the Winds
Ballade of Summer’s Sleep
Winter Hues Recalled
Song of the Stream-Drops
Between the Rapids
New Year’s Eve
Three Flower Petals
A Ballade of Waiting
What Do Poets Want With Gold?
The King’s Sabbath
The Little Handmaiden
The Three Pilgrims
The Coming of Winter
The Child’s Music Lesson
An Athenian Reverie
An Old Lesson from the Fields
A Night of Storm
The Railway Station
The dew is gleaming in the grass,
The morning hours are seven,
And I am fain to watch you pass,
Ye soft white clouds of heaven.
Ye stray and gather, part and fold;
The wind alone can tame you;
I think of what in time of old
The poets loved to name you.
They called you sheep, the sky your sward,
A field without a reaper;
They called the shining sun your lord,
The shepherd wind your keeper.
Your sweetest poets I will deem
The men of old for moulding
In simple beauty such a dream,
And I could lie beholding,
Where daisies in the meadow toss,
The wind from morn till even,
Forever shepherd you across
The shining field of heaven.
Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense,
Still priestess of the patient middle day,
Betwixt wild March’s humored petulance
And the warm wooing of green kirtled May,
Maid month of sunny peace and sober grey,
Weaver of flowers in sunward glades that ring
With murmur of libation to the spring:
As memory of pain, all past, is peace,
And joy, dream-tasted, hath the deepest cheer,
So art thou sweetest of all months that lease
The twelve short spaces of the flying year.
The bloomless days are dead, and frozen fear
No more for many moons shall vex the earth,
Dreaming of summer and fruit laden mirth.