English

Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat —
You must have walked —
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!

I got your letter, and the birds';
The maples never knew
That you were coming, — I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me —
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,

The dog is man's best friend.
He has a tail on one end.
Up in front he has teeth.
And four legs underneath.

Dogs like to bark.
They like it best after dark.
They not only frighten prowlers away
But also hold the sandman at bay.

A dog that is indoors
To be let out implores.
You let him out and what then?
He wants back in again.

Dogs display reluctance and wrath
If you try to give them a bath.
They bury bones in hideaways
And half the time they trot sideways.

Do your days seem long, your pleasures few;
You have more griefs than your neighbors do;
The skies always cloudy, and never blue?
Friend, go to God; He cares for you.

Your every task, they seem so long;
You try to do right, but it turns out wrong;
There's never room in your heart for a song,
Friend, go to Jesus; His arm is strong.

You smile as you start a brand-new day;
But after awhile the smile goes away;
Everything goes, but the grief seems to stay.
Friend, go to God, when you feel that way.

Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare, the carpenter,
Godfearing and bearded Mr. Goodbeare,
Who worked all day
At his carpenter's tray,
Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare?
Mr. Goodbeare, that Golconda of gleaming fable,
Lived thin-ground between orchard and stable,
Pressed thus close against Alfred, his rival —
Mr. Goodbeare, who had never been away.

Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare,
Mr. Goodbeare, who never touched a cup?
Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare,
Who remembered a lot?

Do you remember
That afternoon--that Sunday afternoon!--
When, as the kirks were ringing in,
And the grey city teemed
With Sabbath feelings and aspects,
Lewis--our Lewis then,
Now the whole world's--and you,
Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came,
Laden with Balzacs
(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French),
The first of many times
To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay
So long, so many centuries--
Or years is it!--ago?

Dear Charles, since then

Do you not see the Christmas star,
— The star that walks on high?
Or is the firmament, for you,
— But dark and empty sky?

Do you not hear the angels sing,
— In lucent glory shod?
Who loves a lie can hear them not,
— Nor see the Word of God.

How can the rapture that we know
— Your sluggard hearts enthrall,
Who mark but fodder in the crib,
— But oxen in the stall?

All through the midnight watch the star
— Still paces out the sky.
Do you not see the Christmas star

Do you love me
Or do you not?
You told me once

Do you like marigolds?
If you do
Then my garden is
Gay for you!

I've been cutting their
Fragrant stalks
Where they lean on
The garden walks.

The head's too heavy for
The brittle stem,
A careless touch and
You've broken them

Each one shines like a
Separate star
Set in some heaven where
Gardens are.

My hands smell of the
Herb-like scent,
Telling what garden
Way I went.

Pungent, vivid and
Strong, they stay

I. POTOMAC SIDE

Do you know how the people of all the land
Knew at last that the time was at hand
When He should be sent to give command
To armies and people, to father and son!
How the glad tidings of joy should run
Which tell of the birth of Washington?

Three women keep watch of the midnight sky
Where Potomac ripples below;
They watch till the light in the window hard by
The birth of the child shall show.

Do they miss me at home, do they miss me?
'T would be an assurance most dear
To know that this moment some loved one
Was saying, “Oh, were she but here!”
To know that the group at the fireside
Were thinking of me as I roam,—
Oh yes, 't would be joy beyond measure,
To know that they missed me at home!

When twilight approaches,—the season
That ever was sacred to song,—
Does some one repeat my name over,
And sigh that I tarry so long?
And is there a chord in the music
That's missed when my voice is away?