Ay, there be taverns and to spare,
    Beside the road;
    But some strange goad
  Lets me not stop to taste their fare. 
    Knew I the goal
    Toward which my soul
  And I made way, hope made life fragrant: 
  But no.  We wander, aimless, vagrant!

A WINTER’S DAY

  Across the hills and down the narrow ways,
    And up the valley where the free winds sweep,
    The earth is folded in an ermined sleep
  That mocks the melting mirth of myriad Mays. 
  Departed her disheartening duns and grays,
    And all her crusty black is covered deep. 
    Dark streams are locked in Winter’s donjon-keep,
  And made to shine with keen, unwonted rays. 
  O icy mantle, and deceitful snow! 
    What world-old liars in your hearts ye are! 
    Are there not still the darkened seam and scar
  Beneath the brightness that you fain would show? 
  Come from the cover with thy blot and blur,
  O reeking Earth, thou whited sepulchre!

MY LITTLE MARCH GIRL

  Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart,
  There she is passing, the girl of my heart;
  See where she walks like a queen in the street,
  Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet. 
  Tripping along with impetuous grace,
  Joy of her life beaming out of her face,
  Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl,
  Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.

  Hint of the violet’s delicate bloom,
  Hint of the rose’s pervading perfume! 
  How can the wind help from kissing her face,—­
  Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace? 
  But still serenely she laughs at his rout,
  She is the victor who wins in the bout. 
  So may life’s passions about her soul swirl,
  Leaving it placid,—­my little March girl.

  What self-possession looks out of her eyes! 
  What are the wild winds, and what are the skies,
  Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life,
  Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife? 
  Ah!  Wind, and bah!  Wind, what might have you now? 
  What can you do with that innocent brow? 
  Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl,
  But bring her to me, Wind,—­my little March girl.

REMEMBERED

  She sang, and I listened the whole song thro’. 
    (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)
  The stars were out and the moon it grew
  From a wee soft glimmer way out in the blue
    To a bird thro’ the heavens winging.

  She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast,—­
    (It was sweet, so sweet the singing.)
  As a dove just out of its fledgling nest,
  And, putting its wings to the first sweet test,
    Flutters homeward so wearily winging.

  She sang and I said to my heart “That song,
    That was sweet, so sweet i’ the singing,
  Shall live with us and inspire us long,
  And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strong
    For the sake of those words a-winging.”