Puslapio vaizdai
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The flowers of the Indian corn Droop their fair feathers o'er the sheath,

And all their pollen grains bequeath That golden harvests may be born.

For Nature's dream is all fulfilled, Her clinging robes she folds once more,

And glides within her close-locked door,

For all the wine of life is spilled.

[From Persephone.]

LATE SUMMER.

HYMN FROM "MOTHERHOCD."

THE summer-tide swells high and O BEAUTIFUL new life within my

full;

I sit within the waving grass; The scented breezes o'er me pass, The thistles shed their silky wool.

The ox-eyed daisies hail the sun,

And sprinkle all the acres bright With golden stars of radiant light Amid the feathery grasses dun.

The plaintive brook reflects the glow
Of rows of bleeding cardinal;
The whippoorwill's sweet madrigal
Breathes through the sunset soft and
low.

I see the dear Persephone

Trailing her purple robes more slow,

Her lovely eyelids drooping low, And gazing pensive o'er the sea.

The fringed gentians kiss her hand, The milkweed waves its soft adieus; Their tender words she must refuse, For dark steeds wait upon the strand.

[From Persephone.]

AUTUMN.

EREWHILE the sap has had its will,
The bud has opened into leaf
The grain is ripening for the sheaf,
Demeter's arms have had their fill.

The seed has dropped into the mould,
The flower all its petals shed,
The rattling stalks are dry and dead,
Persephone is still and cold.

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Some great cause win for which our Were hearts had bled.

Some hope come true which all our I find lives had fed,

Some bitter sorrow fade away and flee, | Winds
Which we, rebellious, had too bitter

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any month of peace!-in thy rough days,

no war in nature, though the wild

clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled

At feet of writhing trees. The violets raise

Their heads without affright, or look of maze,

And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.

And he who watches well, will well discern

Sweet expectation in each living thing.

Like pregnant mother, the sweet earth doth yearn;

In secret joy makes ready for the spring;

And hidden, sacred, in her breast doth bear

Annunciation lilies for the year.

JULY.

Than bid our last words burn with SOME flowers are withered and some

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