A

A soft wind blowing from the westAnd woods and fields are sweet again

And warmth within the mountain's breast.

So simple is the earth we tread,

So quick with love and life her frame, Ten thousand years have dawned and fled, And still her magic is the same.

A little love, a little trust,

A soft impulse, a sudden dream,— And life as dry as desert dust

Is fresher than a mountain stream.

So simple is the heart of man,

So ready for new hope and joy; Ten thousand years since it began Have left it younger than a boy.

STOPFORD AUGUSTUS BROOKE.

NATURE

'The world is too much with us'

HE world is too much with us; late and soon,

THE

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Chorus from Aristophanes

O LISTEN to me, and so shall you be stout-hearted

and fresh as a daisy :

Not ready to chatter on every matter, nor bent over books till you're hazy :

No splitter of straws, no dab at the laws, making black seem white so cunning;

But wandering down outside the town, and over the green meadow running,

Ride, wrestle, and play with your fellows so gay, like so many birds of a feather,

All breathing of youth, good-humour, and truth, in the time of the jolly spring weather,

In the jolly springtime, when the poplar and lime dishevel their tresses together.

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

NATURE

A Farm Picture

THROUGH the ample open door of the peaceful

country barn,

A sunlit pasture field with cattle and horses feeding,
And haze and vista, and the far horizon fading away.

Smoke

WALT WHITMAN.

IGHT-WINGED Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day

Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU.

Haze

WOOF of the sun, ethereal gauze,

Woven of Nature's richest stuffs,

Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,
Last conquest of the eye;

Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,
Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,
Ethereal estuary, frith of light,

Breakers of air, billows of heat,

Fine summer spray on inland seas;
Bird of the sun, transparent-winged,
Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,

From heath or stubble rising without song;
Establish thy serenity o'er the fields.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU.

Mist

LOW-ANCHORED cloud,

Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,

Dew cloth, dream drapery,

And napkin spread by fays;

Drifting meadow of the air,

Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,

And in whose fenny labyrinth

The bittern booms and heron wades;

Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,

Bear only perfumes and the scent

Of healing herbs to just men's fields.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU.

AY

The Night-Wind

YE-there it is! it wakes to-night
Deep feelings I thought dead ;

Strong in the blast-quick gathering light-
The heart's flame kindles red.