'Tis not yet dawn; from troubled sleep
And strange bewildering dreams I rise;
Here at the casement will I keep
Still vigils with the sea and skies:
I know not why, a tender sadness
Broods o'er my spirit at this hour;
Perchance the dawn may bring me gladness,
And give my soul fresh hope and power.

Yon ocean, stretching far away,
Blends in the darkness with the sky,
Hither its low, dull murmurs stray,
Now hoarsely swell, now sink and die:
That restless sea is heaving ever,
Kissed by the breeze or tempest tost,

This is the reckless thing I do,
Simply because her eyes are blue,
As are the summer skies above her; —
Merely because her eyes are blue,
This is the foolish thing I do,
I love, love, love her.

We seven kind souls, by friendly chance,
Together hold our way:
All with one impulse we advance,
Or with one will we stay.

Far — far away each well-loved home,
Our absence may regret;
But since awhile we needs must roam,
We joy that we are met.

These gliding days have seen us climb
The mountain's lofty side,
And from the top, all grey with time,
Gain prospects rich and wide.

The valley sweet, the wandering stream,
Green woods and arching skies,
Have seemed like some bright, lovely dream

Brush not the floor where my lady hath trod,
Lest one light sign of her foot you mar;
For where she hath walked, in the Spring, on the sod,
There, I have noticed, most violets are.

Touch not her work, nor her book, nor a thing
That her exquisite finger hath only pressed;
But fan the dust off with a plume that the wing
Of a ring-dove let fall, on his way to his nest.

I think the sun stops, if a moment she stand,
In the morn, sometimes, at her father's door;
And the brook where she may have dipt her hand

I think you still can hear me as I sing,
And so, dear friend, as keepsake and adieu,
This song, which God has given me, I bring
And offer you.

Death his scythe is swinging,
Thro' the corn and clover,
Death is softly singing,
" Summer-time is over. "

Oh, thou stealthy comer,
Thou art here too soon,
It is early summer,
It is only June.

God is still bestowing
Summer sun and rain,
On a blossom growing,
Hidden in the grain.

Gently Death replieth,

Even while chopping
the dried vegetables
her heart was aflutter

When the horse stays in
the groom makes love at home.

What temptress bodied of the devil's sighs,
So termagant and tyrannous and strong,
As take thee from the flowers of Paradise —
As bring thee from the banquet and the song,

To waste the days in agony with Doubt,
To peer into the charnel-pits of Death?
God's mysteries are past all finding out.
Life's joys are fugitive as human breath.

Because the ways of God are strange and dim,
Are other things inevitably vain?
Here is a goblet, rosy to the brim,
Will wash cold sorrow from thy heart and brain.

I

The dead leaves fall.
The air is cold and chill;
The world asleep and still.
The pine trees tall
In the dark wood
Stand brown and bare
In sunless solitude.
And everywhere
Reigns o'er the land a silence dread and drear,
O'er snow-capped barren hill and moor and mere.

II

But, far away,
Borne in a breeze's wake,
Thro' shaggy fern and brake, —
A stream's low lay
Whispers along;
And now and then

On a veranda
smashing to bits
a silver-glazed bowl.

Watch out for
the drawn saber!

I

Mary, when thou wert a virgin,
Ere the first, the fatal sin
Stole into thy bosom's chamber,
Leading six companions in;
Ere those eyes had wept an error,
What thy beauty must have been!

II

Ere those lips had paled their crimson,
Quivering with the soul's despair,
Ere the smile they wore had withered
In thine agony of prayer,
Or, instead of pearls, the tear-drops
Gleamed amid thy streaming hair;

III

While, in ignorance of evil,
Still thy heart serenely dreamed,
And the morning light of girlhood