Over the river they beckon to me,—
—Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side;
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
—But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide.
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
—And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
—And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
—The gates of the city we could not see:
Over the river, over the river,
—My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

The first hour was a word the color of dawn;
The second came, and gorgeous poppies stood
Backs to the wall. The yellow sun rode on:
A mockingbird sang from a nest of wood.

The water in the acequia came down
At the stroke of nine, and watery clouds were lifting
Their velvet shadows from the little town:
Gold fired the pavement where the leaves were shifting.

At ten, black shawls of women bowed along
The Alameda. Sleepy burros lay
In the heat, and lifted up their ears. A song
Wavered upon the wind and died away,

Had I, my love declared, the tireless wing
That wafts the swallow to her northern skies,
I would not, sheer within the rich surprise
Of full-blown Summer, like the swallow, fling
My coyer being; but would follow Spring,
Melodious consort, as she daily flies,
Apace with suns, that o'er new woodlands rise
Each morn—with rains her gentler stages bring
My pinions should beat music with her own;
Her smiles and odours should delight me ever,
Gliding, with measured progress, from the zone
Where golden seas receive the mighty river,

A day that died, with slowly-quenched light,
Before the dusk that glided to the west,
Had led its hours along in quiet flight,
With one of joy, that sweeten'd all the rest.
Our minds could never yield the room for all
Our days at once; but God is ever kind,
To let us send away the thoughts of all
But one, and so forget, as well as mind:
Forget a thousand days, and, in their place,
To mind the day that show'd me first your face,
Forget a thousand days, and keep, the while,
The happy day that show'd me first your smile,

Massed in her creaseless black,
She sits—vast and serene;
Light—on glossed hair, large knees,
Huge bust—a-sheen.

A smile lurks deep in her eyes,
Thick-lidded, motionless, pale,
Taunting a world grown old,
Faded, and stale.

Enormous those childless breasts:
God in His pity knows
Why, in her bodice stuck,
Reeks a mock rose.

Not the sword-blade be our weapon, no, the Word, the Truth, the Right!
For the cheerful, joyous victor, ever wins the noblest fight!
Look at Spring-time, Freedom's champion, learn of him how victory's won,
When he, with the tyrant Winter, has the mighty strife begun!

Winter is a grim old despot, he's a flinty obscurant,
For, with gloomy joy, he mantles in his long, long nights the land;
Winter is an arch oppressor; in his icy fetters bound,
Life's fresh fountains pine for freedom, underneath the stiffened ground.

Come all you men and maidens
And harken unto me;
I will tell you my condition
And what it used to be.

I used to be a sinner
That wandered from the Lord;
I neither heard His counsel
Nor read His Holy Word.

My name is Rufus Mitchell,
The truth to you I'll tell;
I used to drink and gamble
And picked my banjo well.

I kept my evil habits
And served as Satan's slave;
Although my conscience told me,
I had a soul to save.

In spite of all my conscience
I'd tell what was not true;
I would sing a lively ditty

The huge winds gather on the midnight lake,
Shaggy with rain and loud with foam-white feet,
Then bound through miles of darkness till they meet
The harboured ships and city's squares, and wake
From steeples, domes and houses, sounds that take
A human speech, the storm's mad course to greet;
And nightmare voices through the rain and sleet
Pass shrieking, till the town's rock-sinews shake.

Howl, winds, around us in this silent room!
Wild lake, with thunders beat thy prison bars!
A brother's life is ebbing fast away,

What is this creature man, who struts the world
With so much majesty?—A frightful dream!
A midnight goblin, and a restless ghost;
Leaving the dismal regions of the tomb,
To walk in darkness, and astonish night,
With hideous yellings, and with piteous groans!

The radiant orbs that glitter o'er your heads,
What are they more than lamps in sepulchres?
That shine on dead men's bones, and point out death,
Misfortune, sorrow, misery and woe,
And all the sad innumerable ills
That blazon the 'scutcheon of mortality!
A horror visible! than which the shades,

Dear soul be strong!
Mercy will come ere long
And bring his bosom fraught with blessings,
Flowers of never fading graces.
To make immortal dressings
For worthy souls, whose wise embraces
Store up themselves for Him, who is alone
The spouse of virgins and the Virgin's Son.
But if the noble Bridegroom, when He come,
Shall find the loitering heart from home;
Leaving her chaste abode
To gad abroad
Among the gay mates of the god of flies;
To take her pleasure, and to play,
And keep the devil's holiday;
To dance i' the sunshine of some smiling