Plod, plod, plod away,
    Step by step in mouldering moss;
  Thick branches bar the day
    Over languid streams that cross
      Softly, slowly, with a sound
    Like a smothered weeping,
    In their aimless creeping
      Through enchanted ground.

  “Yield, yield, yield thy quest,”
    Whispers through the woodland deep;
  “Come to me and be at rest;
    I am slumber, I am sleep.” 
      Then the weary feet would fail,
    But the never-daunted will
    Urges “Forward, forward still! 
      Press along the trail!”

  Breast, breast, breast the slope
    See, the path is growing steep. 
  Hark! a little song of hope
    Where the stream begins to leap. 
      Though the forest, far and wide,
    Still shuts out the bending blue,
    We shall finally win through,
      Cross the long divide.

  On, on, on we tramp! 
    Will the journey never end? 
  Over yonder lies the camp;
    Welcome waits us there, my friend. 
      Can we reach it ere the night? 
    Upward, upward, never fear! 
    Look, the summit must be near;
      See the line of light!

  Red, red, red the shine
    Of the splendour in the west,
  Glowing through the ranks of pine,
    Clear along the mountain-crest! 
    Long, long, long the trail
    Out of sorrow’s lonely vale;
      But at last the traveller sees
      Light between the trees!

March, 1904.

THE HERMIT THRUSH

  O wonderful!  How liquid clear
  The molten gold of that ethereal tone,
  Floating and falling through the wood alone,
  A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!

 O holy, holy, holy!  Hyaline,
  Long light, low light, glory of eventide! 
  Love far away, far up,—­up,—­love divine! 
  Little love, too, for ever, ever near,
  Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine,
  In the leafy dark where you hide,
  You are mine,—­mine,—­mine!

  Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me
  The hidden virtue of that melody,
  The rapture and the purity of love,
  The heavenly joy that can not find the word? 
  Then, while we wait again to hear the bird,
  Come very near to me, and do not move,—­
  Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew
  The cool, green cup of air with harmony,
  And we will drink the wine of love with you.

May, 1908.

TURN O’ THE TIDE

  The tide flows in to the harbour,—­
    The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o’ the sunlit sea,—­
  And the little ships riding at anchor,
    Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting
      To lift their wings to the wide wild air,
      And venture a voyage they know not where,—­
    To fly away and be free!