I see them gray among their ancient acres,
Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—­
Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,
Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—­
Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.

Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—­
Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—­
Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,
And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,
And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.

I love their orchards where the gay woodpecker
Flits, flashing o’er you, like a winged jewel;
Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker
With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,
The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.

Old homes! old hearts!  Upon my soul forever
Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;
Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,
With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after
The dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

Field and Forest Call

There is a field, that leans upon two hills,
Foamed o’er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills;
That in its girdle of wild acres bears
The anodyne of rest that cures all cares;
Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent
And fragrance—­as in some old instrument
Sweet chords—­calm things, that nature’s magic spell
Distils from heaven’s azure crucible,
And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well. 
          There lies the path, they say—­
          Come, away! come, away!

There is a forest, lying ’twixt two streams,
Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;
That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf
Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief;
Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,
Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings,
Dews and cool shadows—­that the mystic soul
Of nature permeates with suave control,
And waves o’er earth to make the sad heart whole. 
          There lies the road, they say—­
          Come, away! come, away!

Meeting in Summer

A tranquil bar
Of rosy twilight under dusk’s first star.

A glimmering sound
Of whispering waters over grassy ground.

A sun-sweet smell
Of fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell.

A lazy breeze
Jostling the ripeness from the apple-trees.

A vibrant cry,
Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky.

And faintly now
The katydid upon the shadowy bough.

And far-off then
The little owl within the lonely glen.

And soon, full soon,
The silvery arrival of the moon.

And, to your door,
The path of roses I have trod before.

And, sweetheart, you! 
Among the roses and the moonlit dew.

Swinging