Mystiques barcarolles
Romances sans paroles,
Chere, puisque tes yeux,
Couleur des cieux,

Puisque ta voix, etrange
Vision qui derange
Et trouble l'horizon
De ma raison,

Puisque l'arome insigne
De ta pâleur de cygne,
Et puisque la candeur
De ton odeur,

Ah! puisque tout ton être,
Musique qui penetre,
Nimbes d'anges defunts,
Tons et parfums,

A, sur d'almes cadences,
En ses correspondances
Induit mon caeur subtil,
Ainsi soit-il!

What was the moon a-spying
Out of her half-shut eye?
One of her stars went flying
Across the broad, blue sky.

The lumberjack he ain't no saint,
That much I will agree;
There are occasions when he ain't
Just what he ought to be.
At sayin' prayers he's kind of slack,
An' kind of fond of drink;
An' yet these fellahs ain't as black
As some folks seem to think.

Now there was Billy Anderson,
A jack from Puget Sound,
A fellah who could lift a ton
Like some men lift a pound.
An' yet he had the kindest heart,
As big as kingdom come —
You'd always see him take the part
Of creatures that was dumb.

The wind is shaking the old dried leaves
That would not quit their hold,
The sun slips under the stiffened grass,
And drives away the cold.

Child Franca carries the dinner-horn
To summon home the men;
She raises it high for a ringing blast,
But silent it falls again:

" The men on the hill are hungry, I know,
They 've been working for hours and hours;
But first I will blow just as kind as I can
To call out the sweet little flowers, —

" Blow loud for the blossoms that live in the trees,

It's easy to haul on the level,
A tote-road that's smooth as a floor;
You may have to work like the devil
An' pull till your shoulder is sore;
An' even a hill may not best you,
A little upgrade now an' then—
But there is one road that will test you,
The test of both horses an' men.

An' that is the downgrade, my brother,
The place where you don't have to pull;
The easy road, somehow or other,
Is one that of trouble is full.
The road up the hill you can master,
The long haul that's level may beat,

A loose limb hangs upon a pine three log-lengths from the ground,
A norway tumbles with a whine and shakes the woods around.
The loose limb plunges from its place and zigzags down below;
And Jack is lying on his face — there's red upon the snow.

They'll dress him in a cotton shirt, they'll cross his horny hands;
They'll dig a hollow in the dirt within the forest lands;
They'll put him in a wooden box; they'll wonder whence he came,
And build a monument of rocks without a date or name.

" He got a letter, that I know. " " I wonder where it is. "

I've hit her up a few myself when Winter days was done;
With twenty million on the shelf a-waitin' for the sun,
I've brung my Winter stake to town an' moseyed to be first
Of all the lumberjacks to drown an 18-karat thirst;
But I renig, an' I give up, an' I lay down an' quit:
I thought that I could quaff the cup an' hit it up a bit;
But of my thirst I ani't so proud, an' I just set an' grieve —
For I ain't in it with your crowd in town on New Year's Eve.

Last year we broke a donkey gear when things was goin' fine.

You skirt in a hammock, you dame in a swing, you dude in the stern of a yacht,
You think you are hep to this picnickin' thing, an' close up to Nature you've got.
You load up a basket with sissified grub, with sandwiches, olives an' jell,
An' travel ten miles on a trolley or tub an' say you will rough it a spell.
You carry a napkin to wipe off your chin, a tablecloth folded an' neat,
An' china an' silverware always put in — for otherwise how could you eat?
You set on the grass an' lay chicken away in under a maple or pine

They 're coming! they 're coming!
'T is writ on the air,
In incense and harmony
Breathed everywhere!
Winds murmur no longer
Their woe to the pines —
But spiders are spinning
Their gossamer lines.
Blue-birds are darting
The branches among,
Wild with a pleasure
Only half sung.
Willows are greening
Down by the brook;
Insects are stirring
In forest and nook;

Sunlight is bringing
Buttercups sweet —
Hear the grass whisper
Under our feet!
Telling of daisies,
Telling of clover,

Over us the wild, cool Night
Spread her dark tresses heavy with quick gems,
Till in the twinkling blackness, lithe and light,
We felt like wood-flowers swung on hidden stems.