Still, spirit mine, the by-paths that I plod

Do lead the selfsame way.

And if a little part I should fulfil

Of those fair deeds which you hoped to pursue—

Oh, how content to walk the miles until

I reach my home and you.

An Old Song

Low blowing winds from out a midnight sky,

The falling embers and a kettle’s croon—

These three, but oh what sweeter lullaby

Ever awoke beneath the winter’s moon.

We know of none the sweeter, you and I,

And oft we’ve heard together that old tune—

Low blowing winds from out a midnight sky,

The falling embers and a kettle’s croon.

Old Roses

Spirit of old-time roses, when the glow

Of eventide steals softly through the trees

Like rosy petals falling, and the breeze

Grows hushed until it sings a love-song, low

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