As a fond mother, when the day is o’er,
  Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
  Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
  And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
  Nor wholly reassured and comforted
  By promises of others in their stead,
  Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
  Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
  Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
  Being too full of sleep to understand
  How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN

Here lies the gentle humorist, who died
  In the bright Indian Summer of his fame! 
  A simple stone, with but a date and name,
  Marks his secluded resting-place beside
The river that he loved and glorified. 
  Here in the autumn of his days he came,
  But the dry leaves of life were all aflame
  With tints that brightened and were multiplied. 
How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death! 
  Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours,
  Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;
Dying, to leave a memory like the breath
  Of summers full of sunshine and of showers,
  A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.

ELIOT’S OAK

Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud
  With sounds of unintelligible speech,
  Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,
  Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;
With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed,
  Thou speakest a different dialect to each;
  To me a language that no man can teach,
  Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. 
For underneath thy shade, in days remote,
  Seated like Abraham at eventide
  Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown
Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote
  His Bible in a language that hath died
  And is forgotten, save by thee alone.

THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face,
  Came from their convent on the shining heights
  Of Pierus, the mountain of delights,
  To dwell among the people at its base. 
Then seemed the world to change.  All time and space,
  Splendor of cloudless days and starry nights,
  And men and manners, and all sounds and sights,
  Had a new meaning, a diviner grace. 
Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud
  To teach in schools of little country towns
  Science and song, and all the arts that please;
So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed,
  Their comely daughters, clad in homespun gowns,
  Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides.

VENICE