shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl, Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers; Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley, Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours; Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood—  Fair shine the day on the house with open door; Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney—  But I go for ever and come again no more.

XVII—WINTER

In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane The redbreast looks in vain For hips and haws, Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane The silver pencil of the winter draws.

When all the snowy hill And the bare woods are still; When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs— More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!

Saranac Lake.

XVIII

The stormy evening closes now in vain, Loud wails the wind and beats the driving rain, While here in sheltered house With fire-ypainted walls, I hear the wind abroad, I hark the calling squalls— ‘Blow, blow,’ I cry, ‘you burst your cheeks in vain! Blow, blow,’ I cry, ‘my love is home again!’

Yon ship you chase perchance but yesternight Bore still the precious freight of my delight, That here in sheltered house With fire-ypainted walls, Now hears the wind abroad, Now harks the calling squalls. ‘Blow, blow,’ I cry, ‘in vain you rouse the sea, My rescued sailor shares the fire with me!’

XIX—TO DR. HAKE (On receiving a Copy of Verses)

In the belovèd hour that ushers day, In the pure dew, under the breaking grey, One bird, ere yet the woodland quires awake, With brief réveillé summons all the brake: Chirp, chirp, it goes; nor waits an answer long; And that small signal fills the grove with song.

Thus on my pipe I breathed a strain or two; It scarce was music, but ’twas all I knew. It was not music, for I lacked the art, Yet what but frozen music filled my heart?

Chirp, chirp, I went, nor hoped a nobler strain; But Heaven decreed I should not pipe in vain, For, lo! not far from there, in secret dale, All silent, sat an ancient nightingale. My sparrow notes he heard; thereat awoke; And with a tide of song his silence broke.

XX—TO ---

I knew thee strong and quiet like the hills; I knew 

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