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On the We'd be so happy by the day,
So safe and happy through the night,
And we'll make merry whilst we may.
Perhaps some day there'd be an egg
When spring had blossomed from the snow:
Like chanticleer I'd almost crow
Next you should sit and I would sing
I'd sit; and you should spread your wing
Fancy the breaking of the shell,
The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,
Fancy the embryo coats of down,
The gradual feathers soft and sleek;
So would it last an April through
And early summer fresh with dew, Then should we part and live as twain: Love-time would bring me back to you And build our happy nest again.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
The Flight of the Birds
Whither away, Robin,
Is it through envy of the maple-leaf,
The summer days were long, yet all too brief
Whither away, Bluebird,
The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky
Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,
Whither away, Swallow,
On the Canst thou no longer tarry in the North,
Not one short day?
Wilt thou-as if thou human wert-go forth
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
The Shepherd's Home
My banks they are furnished with bees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
Such health do my fountains bestow;
Not a pine in the grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
But a sweetbrier entwines it around.
I have found out a gift for my fair,
I have found where the wood pigeons breed,
But let me such plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;
For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
To a Cricket
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill,
For thy song with Summer's filled
Filled with sunshine, filled with June;
Firelight echo of that noon
Heard in fields when all is stilled
WILLIAM C. BENNETT.
On the Grasshopper and Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
That is the Grasshopper's-he takes the lead
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,