Fires of Driftwood eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 43 pages of information about Fires of Driftwood.

I love my love.  O words that be too feeble and too few! 
  I love my love!—­as April on the hill
  Brings back earth’s morning with each daffodil,
So she within my heart makes all things new.

Spring Awoke To-Day

SPRING awoke to-day!  Somewhere—­far away—­ Spring awoke to-day From the depth of dream.

Through the air bestirred
  Pulse of winging bird,
Through the air bestirred
  Laugh of hidden stream.

On the world’s cold lips
  Fell warm finger-tips;
On the world’s cold lips
  Woke the glow and gleam!

Spring awoke to-day! 
  Somewhere—­far away—­
Spring awoke to-day
  From the depth of dream!

In Town

Somewhere there’s a willow budding
In a hollow by the river,
Where the autumn leaves lie sodden,
Turning all the pool to brown;
There’s a thrush who’s building early,
With his feathers all a-shiver,
And the maple sap is rising—­
But I’m glad that I’m in town.

Somewhere out there in the country
There’s a brook that’s overflowing,
And a quaker pussy-willow
Sews grey velvet on her gown;
Rushes whisper to each other
That marsh marigolds are showing,
And those saucy crocus fellows—­
But I’m glad that I’m in town.

Long ago, when we were younger,
How those little things enthralled us;
King-birds nesting in the hedges,
Baby field-mice soft as down,
Muskrats in the sun-warmed shallows—­
Strange how all these voices called us!—­
Hark, was that a robin singing? 
When’s the next train out of town?

Summer’s Passing

A single branch of flaming red,
  A branch of tawny yellow
And every branch in gorgeousness
  A rival of its fellow;
Some russet brown and faded green
With golden shadows in between
  And mist-hid sun to mellow.

An instinct as of music near—­
  A breath the wind is bringing,
Broken and sweet, as from a host
  Of swift and solemn winging—­
A mystery born of light and sound
Wrapping our tranced progress round—­
  A sighing and a singing!

Thus in a certain lovely pomp
  We leave the Summer lying—­
These are her funeral banners, this
  The pageantry of dying! 
The music that we almost hear
Is wafted from her passing bier—­
  The singing and the sighing!

The Doom of Ys

Do you hear the bell?  ’Tis a silver chime
But it ringeth not in the bourne of time.

With the wind it swells, with the wind ’twill sink,
Dying at last by the sea’s dim brink.

By mortal hands the bell was hung
By mortal hands ’tis never swung.

When the moon’s at full and the long tide creeps
It rings o’er the town that the deep sea keeps—­

Copyrights
Project Gutenberg
Fires of Driftwood from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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