Where

The vagrant will-o’-wisps do greet the sight;

Where fragrance baffling permeates the breeze

That gently flouts the grasses and the trees;

Where every flying thing doth seem to be

Instinct with sweetly sensuous melody;

Where hills and dales assume their warmest phase,

With here and there a scarf of opal haze

To soften their luxuriant attire;

Where one can almost hear the elfin choir

Across the meadow-land, down in the wood,

In songs of gladness—there are all things good.

Ah! ye who seek the spot where joys abide,

Awake! Awake! Seek out the country-side,

And through the blue-gray July haze see life

All free from care, from sorrow, and from strife.

MAY 30, 1893

It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say

It

That ’twas not part of Nature’s own sweet way,

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