Still the golden pollen smokes, silver runs the rain,
    Still the timid mists creep out when the sun lies down—­
  Oh, I am weary waiting to return to you again,
    So take a pale, familiar face out beyond the town.

The Warm Green Sea

  The winds run warm on the waves of the grass
          that lifts like a scented sea. 
  No sound of the surf, no sob of the tides;
          but the drone of the drowsy bee
  Is drawing me out from the purple shades
          to wade in the daffodils,
  Where the long green billows go drifting by
          to lap the feet of the hills.

  Like the snow-white spume on the shattered waves
          the daisies twist and cream,
  Over their heads in a painted mist the myriad
          insects gleam. 
  And the still sea sways in the sun’s soft breath
          and breaks on the green, green sand,
  Till I bare my limbs to the noiseless surf
          and wade from the silent land.

  The pale stalks eddy from knee to waist and rise
          to my sun-flecked face;
  Cool on my lips is the daisy foam and the spray
          of the Queen Anne’s lace. 
  With half-shut eyes and outstretched arms I swim
          through the scented heat. 
  Oh, never were broad sea winds so warm,
          nor Southern seas so sweet?

There’s Music in My Heart To-day

  There’s music in my heart to-day;
    The Master-hand is on the keys,
  Calling me up to the windy hills
    And down to the purple seas.

  Let Time draw back when I hear that tune—­
    Old to the soul when the stars were new—­
  And swing the doors to the four great winds,
    That my feet may wander through.

  North or South, and East or West;
    Over the rim with the bellied sails,
  From the mountain’s feet to the empty plains,
    Or down the silent trails—­

  It matters not which door you choose;
    The same clear tune blows through them all,
  Though one harp leaps to the grind of seas
    And one to the rain-bird’s call.

  However you hide in the city’s din
    And drown your ears with its siren songs,
  Some day steal in those thin, wild notes,
    And you leave the foolish throngs.

  God grant that the day will find me not
    When the tune shall mellow and thrill in vain—­
  So long as the plains are red with sun,
    And the woods are black with rain.

August on the River

The swooning heat of August
Swims along the valley’s bed. 
The tall reeds burn and blacken,
While the gray elm droops its head,
And the smoky sun above the hills is glaring
hot and red.

Along the shrinking river,
Where the salmon-nets hang brown,
Piles the driftwood of the freshets,
And the naked logs move down
To the clanking chains and shrieking saws
of the mills above the town.