“Those Days Are Long Departed.”

Those days are long departed, Gone where the dead dreams are, Since we two children started To look for the morning star.

We asked our way of the swallow In his language that we knew, We were sad we could not follow So swift the dark bird flew.

We set our wherry drifting Between the poplar trees, And the banks of meadows shifting Were the shores of unknown seas.

We talked of the white snow prairies That lie by the Northern lights, And of woodlands where the fairies Are seen in the moonlit nights.

Till one long day was over And we grew too tired to roam, And through the corn and clover We slowly wandered home.

Ah child! with love and laughter We had journeyed out so far; We who went in the big years after To look for another star;

But I go unbefriended Through wind and rain and foam,-- One day was hardly ended When the angel took you home.

IN APRIL.

The diamond dew lies cool In the violet cups athirst, The buds are ready to burst, The heart of the spring is full; Great clouds dream over the sky, The drops on the grass-blades glisten, The daffodil droops to listen As the wind from the South goes by, For it came through the sea cliffs hollow, With the dawning over the bay, And the swallow, it said, the swallow, The swallow comes home to-day.

IN THE WOODS.

This is a simple song That the world sings every day, Hark! as ye pass along Ye that go by the way! For the nightingale up in the oak-bough sings, “Be loyal, be true, true, true,” And the wood-dove sits with its folded wings, And answers “to you, to you.” And the thrush in the hedge, “I am glad, be glad,” And the linnet, “let love, let live,” And the wind in the rushes says, “why so sad!” And the wind in the trees “forgive!” While ever so high in the skies above The heart of the lark o’erflows, And “I love, I love, and I love,” Is the only song he knows. Hark! as ye pass along Ye that go by the way! This is the simple song That the world sings every day.

A SUMMER SONG.

Summer in the world and morning, the far hills were in the mist, And we watched the river borders, how the rush and ripple kist, While the bird sang “Whither, whither,” and the wind said, “Where I list.”

And we saw the yellow kingcup, and the arrowhead look through, From the silent, shallow waters, where the mirrored skies were blue, And the flags about the swan’s nest kept the secret that we knew.

In the hedge a thrush was singing, where the wild hopclusters are, And the lowly ragged-robin, with its frailly fretted star, While a soft wind brought the fragrance of the meadow-sweet from far.

All its blushing bells a’ ringing, on a bank the foxglove grows, Where the honeysuckle tangles in the thorns of the wild rose, And a sudden sea of blue-bells from the wood-side overflows.

And we watched the silver crescent of the wings of the wild dove Circle swiftly in the sunlight through the aspen tops above, And we felt the great world’s heart beat, in the gladness of our love.

THE BURDEN OF AUTUMN.

We are dying, said the flowers, All the days are out of tune, Spent are all the sungold hours, And the glory that was June, Dying, dying said the flowers. The snow will hide the garden bed While they sleep underground, Wild winds will drift it overhead, But they will slumber sound.

We are going, said the swallows, All the singing days are done, Summer’s over, winter follows, And we seek a warmer sun, Going southward, said the swallows. And I must watch them all depart And find no song to sing, Oh take the autumn from my heart And give me back the spring!