A LONG way off you hear a song-bird trill;
At hand the city hums its endless song,
Till longingly you vision some green hill
And fret because the day seems over-long.
Dear Heart-o'-Mine were you not there before —
And, looking back, wished you were here once more?

The silent shepherd in the distant vale
Dreams not of peaceful days or calm, white nights.
He hears again the traveler's wondrous tale
Of life resplendent in the city's lights.
Cursing the fate that makes existence drear,
He hates the hills, the dales, the shadowed mere!

A little hour of sunshine,
A little while of joy,
We winnow in our harvesting
From all the world's alloy.

None, none, are so benighted,
Who journey up life's hill,
But have some treasured memory,
Which lives all vibrant still.

Into the immeasurable reaches of the still Unknown,
A little space ago you took your smiling way,
Led by a radiant, splendid Faith and that alone;
Lighted by love, the Path to you was bright as day.
You had no fear — as ever your one lack —
But took Death's kindly hand nor once looked back.

Whether you found the Great Adventure all you thought;
Whether or no that Life to your belief squares true,
The legacy you left to us — yourself — has taught,
What creeds, however good, could never do.
This world is better for your being here;

I breathe the lyric of my love
Across the twilit way,
The gentle echoes bear it on
Beyond the edge of day.

All vibrant is the melody
The silences repeat,
My song is but my longing heart
Pulsated with its beat.

It winds amid the dusky ways
Where far mysteries shine,
To find amid God's trackless space,
One answering song to mine.

I AIN'T afraid to lay here in the dark
 And listen to the hall clock tickin' slow;
I ain't afraid to hear that old mouse run
 And gnaw the wall—he can't get out, I know.
I ain't afraid to shut my eyes an' hold
 Them tight. But I just can't help feeling queer;
I get so lonesome, ma, I 'd like to cry—
 I would n't feel so bad if you was here!

I like to hear you laughing on the porch,
 And always when my pa smokes a cigar
I get a little smell of it up here—
 And that 's the way I know just where you are.

I WRITED a letter to Santa Claus and give it to ma to read,
And when she was through she laughs and says, “My darling, you do not need
Half of the things you have put down here—had n't you better do
It over again before we send it on up the chimbley flue?”
She ast me that, but I 'm sure she knows
(As well as a mother can)
That Santa Claus is what pa calls
A very lib-er-ul man.
And when we send him our letters each year, the biggest things always lead;
We ask for the things that we want, we do, and not for the things we need!

Behold! the living thrilling lines
That course the blood like madd'ning wines,
And leap with scintillating spray
Across the guards of ecstasy.
The flame that lights the lurid spell
Springs from the soul's artesian well,
Its fairy filament of art
Entwines the fragments of a heart.

Roses after rain,
Pleasure after pain,
Happiness will soothe the sigh,
Smiles await the tear-dimmed eye —
Bloom will follow blight,
Daylight trails the night,
Life is sweeter
Love is deeper
In the heart's twilight!

My father was a dark-complected man
Who in a moment's joy my life began:
Before him my old and erect grandsire
Burned through, like him, with madness and a fire,
And I am surely kinsman to their clan.

I always loathed the four walls of a room,
And the glad summer varying sun and gloom
I revelled in, — I loved to sprawl in grass
And watch the footless wind-gusts dip and pass
In fields of wheat, on uplands bright with bloom;

And where the twinkling waters of the sea
Washed outward into blue immensity

On ev'ry Friday afternoon my ma makes it a rule
To dress me up and send me off to this old dancing school,
Where ev'ry girl I ever knew, and some I do n't, get's smart
And giggles when I try to waltz, or learn the steps by heart.
I wish the folks that like it so
Would come and dance — and let me go!

I never asked to come up here; I hate it, yes, siree!
And what 's the good of doing it, no one can make me see;
It's well enough for sissy boys and little girls, I guess
That like to laugh and talk a lot, and comb their hair and dress,