A LITTLE maiden met me in the lane,
And smiled a smile so very fain,
So full of trust and happiness,
I could not choose but bless
The child, that she should have such grace
To laugh into my face.

She never could have known me; but I thought
It was the common joy that wrought
Within the little creature's heart,
As who should say:—“Thou art
As I; the heaven is bright above us;
And there is God to love us.

And I am but a little gleeful maid,
And thou art big, and old, and staid;
But the blue hills have made thee mild
As is a little child.

IF I could know
That here about the place where last you played,—
Within this room, and yonder in the shade
Of branches low,—
Your spirit lingered, I would never go,
But evermore a hermit pace the round
Of sunny paths across this garden ground,
And o'er the fleckered lawn
Whereon your baby chariot was drawn,
And round these lonely walls,
Where no sound ever falls
So pretty as your prattle or your crow,—
If I could only know!

If I could know
That to some distant clime or planet rare
Sweet souls like thine repair,

Santa Anna came storming, as a storm might come;
There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;
There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum--
Full seven proud thousand in pomp and parade,
The chivalry, flower of all Mexico;
And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!

And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through;
For the siege had been bitter, and bloody and long.
"Surrender, or die!"--"Men, what will you do?"
And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong;
Drew a line at his feet . . . Will you come? Will you go?

In awful pomp, and melancholy state,
See settled Reason on the judgment seat;
Around her crowd Distrust, and Doubt, and Fear,
And thoughtful Foresight, and tormenting Care:
Far from the throne, the trembling Pleasures stand,
Chain'd up, or exil'd by her stern command.
Wretched her subjects, gloomy sits the queen;
Till happy Chance reverts the cruel scene:
And apish Folly with her wild resort
Of wit and jest disturbs the solemn court.
See the fantastic minstrelsy advance,
To breathe the song, and animate the dance.
Blest the usurper! happy the surprise!

notice the convulsed orange inch of moon
perching on this silver minute of evening.

We'll choose the way to the forest—no offense
to you, white town whose spires softly dare.
Will take the houseless wisping rune
of road lazily carved on sharpening air.

Fields lying miraculous in violent silence

fill with microscopic whithering
… (that's the Black People, cherie,
who live under stones.) Don't be afraid

and we will pass the simple ugliness
of exact tombs, where a large road crosses
and all the people are minutely dead.

My life is like a music-hall,
Where, in the impotence of rage,
Chained by enchantment to my stall,
I see myself upon the stage
Dance to amuse a music-hall.

'Tis I that smoke this cigarette,
Lounge here, and laugh for vacancy,
And watch the dancers turn; and yet
It is my very self I see
Across the cloudy cigarette.

My very self that turns and trips,
Painted, pathetically gay,
An empty song upon the lips
In make-believe of holiday:
I, I, this thing that turns and trips!

The light flares in the music-hall,

All things creep out of the shadows with dawn,
And the wind's up,
The killdeer whistles its song across the lawn
To the buttercup,
And three hills beyond night
The sea is awake with the miracle of light.
Now are the roads astir with the tread of our feet,
Hi-oh, hi-oh, hi-oh, but life is sweet!

No geese had brought your letters for a long time.
How did I know your brush and inkstone were buried in dust?
The paintings you've left me are now stored in a bamboo box.
Each time I take one out and look, my sorrow increases.

You come between me & the night.
Closer than sleep you lie with me
You are the air, you are the light,
You are my hearing, you my sight,
And you are all I hear & see.

Tell me, Silvia, why the sigh
Heaves your bosom, why the tear
Steals unbidden from your eye?
Tell me what you wish or fear?

Providence prosusely kind,
Wheresoe'er you turn your eyes,
Bids you with a grateful mind
View a thousand blessings rise.

Round you affluence spreads her stores,
Young health sparkles in your eye,
Tenderest, kindest friends are yours,
Tell me, Silvia, why you sigh?

'Tis, perhaps, some friendly voice
Softly whispers to your mind,
“Make not these alone your choice
“Heaven has blessings more refin'd.