“Give me some!” Clutch the first handful,
Hungering rover of earth! 
How I devour and kiss them,
Beauties that brought me to birth,

Away in the great north country,
The land of the lonely sun,
Where God has few for his fellows,
And the wolves of the snowdrift run.

Once more to the frost-bound valley
Comes April with rain in her jar;
I can hear the vesper sparrow
Under the silver star.

And many and dear and gracious
Are the dreams that walk at my side
From the land of the lingering shadows,
As out of the throng I stride.

Oh, well for you, mere onlooker,
Who drift through the world’s great mart! 
But we of the human sorrow
Have a joy beyond your art.

DAISIES.

Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea,
A host in the sunshine, an army in June,
The people God sends us to set our heart free.

The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell,
The orioles whistled them out of the wood;
And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well!”
And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good!”

THE MOCKING-BIRD.

Hear! hear! hear!
Listen! the word
Of the mocking-bird!
Hear! hear! hear! 
I will make all clear;
I will let you know
Where the footfalls go
That through the thicket and over the hill
Allure, allure.
How the bird-voice cleaves
Through the weft of leaves
With a leap and a thrill
Like the flash of a weaver’s shuttle, swift and sudden and sure!

And la, he is gone—­even while I turn
The wisdom of his runes to learn. 
He knows the mystery of the wood,
The secret of the solitude;
But he will not tell, he will not tell,
For all he promises so well.

KARLENE.

Word of a little one born in the West,—­
How like a sea-bird it comes from the sea,
Out of the league-weary waters’ unrest
Blown with white wings, for a token, to me!

Blown with a skriel and a flurry of plumes
(Sea-spray and flight-rapture whirled in a gleam!)
Here for a sign of the comrade that looms
Large in the mist of my love as I dream.

He with the heart of an old violin,
Vibrant at every least stir in the place,
Lyric of woods where the thrushes begin,
Wave-questing wanderer, still for a space,—­

What will the child of his be (so I muse),
Wood-flower, sea-flower, star-flower rare? 
Worlds here to choose from, and which will she choose,
She whose first world is an armsweep of air?

Baby Karlene, you are wondering now
Why you can’t reach the great moon that you see
Just at your hand on the edge of the bough
That waves in the window-pane—­how can it be?