In the leafy dark where you hide,

You are mine,—mine,—mine!

 Ah, my belovèd, 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.

Ah, my belovèd, 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!

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,

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