Here’s your game and here’s your prize! Hover near him, lure him, tease him, Do your very best to please him, Dancing on the water foamy, Like the frail and fair Salome, Till the monarch yields at last; Rises, and you have him fast! Then remember well your duty,— Do not lose, but land, your booty; For the finest fish of all is Salvelinus Fontinalis.
So, you plumed illusions, go,
Let my comrade Archie know
Every day he goes a-fishing
I’ll be with him in well-wishing.
Most of all when lunch is laid
In the dappled orchard shade,
With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too,
Sitting as we used to do
Round the white cloth on the grass
While the lazy hours pass,
And the brook’s contented tune
Lulls the sleepy afternoon,—
Then’s the time my heart will be
With that pleasant company!
June 17, 1913.
A deeper crimson in the rose,
A fir-tree standeth lonely
A flawless cup: how delicate and fine
A little fir grew in the midst of the wood
A mocking question! Britain’s answer came
A silent world,—yet full of vital joy
A silken curtain veils the skies,
A tear that trembles for a little while
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
Afterthought of summer’s bloom!
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
All along the Brazos River,
All day long in the city’s canyon-street,
All hail, ye famous Farmers!
All night long, by a distant bell
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,
Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira
At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,
At sunset, when the rosy light was dying
Children of the elemental mother,
“Clam O! Fres’ Clam!” How strange it sounds and sweet,
Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times,
Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death!
Come home, my love, come home!
Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again,
Count not the cost of honour to the dead!
Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night Dear Aldrich, now November’s mellow days Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, Deeds not Words: I say so too! Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; “Do you give thanks for this?—or that?” No, God be thanked Do you remember, father,— Does the snow fall at sea?
Ere thou sleepest gently lay
Fair Phyllis is another’s bride:
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine
Far richer than a thornless rose
Flowers rejoice when night is done,
For that thy face is fair I love thee not:
Four things a man must learn to do
From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the moon,
Furl your sail, my little boatie: