Dreamin’ by de rivah side
    Wif de watahs glist’nin’,
  Feelin’ good an’ satisfied
    Ez you lay a-list’nin’
  To the little nakid boys
    Splashin’ in de watah,
  Hollerin’ fu’ to spress deir joys
    Jes’ lak youngsters ought to.

  Squir’l a-tippin’ on his toes,
    So ‘s to hide an’ view you;
  Whole flocks o’ camp-meetin’ crows
    Shoutin’ hallelujah. 
  Peckahwood erpon de tree
    Tappin’ lak a hammah;
  Jaybird chattin’ wif a bee,
    Tryin’ to teach him grammah.

  Breeze is blowin’ wif perfume,
    Jes’ enough to tease you;
  Hollyhocks is all in bloom,
    Smellin’ fu’ to please you. 
  Go ‘way, folks, an’ let me ’lone,
    Times is gettin’ dearah—­
  Summah’s settin’ on de th’one,
    An’ I ‘m a-layin’ neah huh!

SPRING SONG

  A blue-bell springs upon the ledge,
  A lark sits singing in the hedge;
  Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air,
  And life is brimming everywhere. 
  What lark and breeze and bluebird sing,
      Is Spring, Spring, Spring!

  No more the air is sharp and cold;
  The planter wends across the wold,
  And, glad, beneath the shining sky
  We wander forth, my love and I.
  And ever in our hearts doth ring
      This song of Spring, Spring!

  For life is life and love is love,
  ’Twixt maid and man or dove and dove. 
  Life may be short, life may be long,
  But love will come, and to its song
  Shall this refrain for ever cling
      Of Spring, Spring, Spring!

TO LOUISE

  Oh, the poets may sing of their Lady Irenes,
  And may rave in their rhymes about wonderful queens;
  But I throw my poetical wings to the breeze,
  And soar in a song to my Lady Louise. 
  A sweet little maid, who is dearer, I ween,
  Than any fair duchess, or even a queen. 
  When speaking of her I can’t plod in my prose,
  For she ’s the wee lassie who gave me a rose.

  Since poets, from seeing a lady’s lip curled,
  Have written fair verse that has sweetened the world;
  Why, then, should not I give the space of an hour
  To making a song in return for a flower? 
  I have found in my life—­it has not been so long—­
  There are too few of flowers—­too little of song. 
  So out of that blossom, this lay of mine grows,
  For the dear little lady who gave me the rose.

  I thank God for innocence, dearer than Art,
  That lights on a by-way which leads to the heart,
  And led by an impulse no less than divine,
  Walks into the temple and sits at the shrine. 
  I would rather pluck daisies that grow in the wild,
  Or take one simple rose from the hand of a child,
  Then to breathe the rich fragrance of flowers that bide
  In the gardens of luxury, passion, and pride.