Heart of my heart, when the skies hang low,
And all day long the light winds blow,
When the South, and the East, and the North, are gray
And the soft rain falls through the autumn day,
Then, Light of my soul, canst thou not hear
The voice of the West Wind, soft and clear?
"Come," he whispers, and "Come," again,
Leave the dull skies and the steady rain,
Leave thou the lowlands and chill gray sea,
Heart of my own heart, and come with me.
ROBERT PALFREY UTTER.
_Harvard Monthly_
~A Fairy Barcarolle.~
My skiff is of bark from the white birch-tree,
A butterfly's wing is my sail,
And twisted grasses my cordage be,
Stretched taut by the favoring gale.
My cushions are pearly gossamers frail,
My mast is a tapering reed,
My rudder a blush-rose petal pale,
My ballast of wild-flower seed.
Through forests old and meads remote
We'll sail on the leaf-arched streams,
Down the silver rivers of Fancy float
To the golden sea of dreams.
WILLIAM HOLDEN EDDY.
_Brown Magazine._
~A Bird's Cradle-Song.~
Weary, weary loves!
Day is o'er and past;
Every drooping lily bell
Chimes good-night at last.
Softly! nursing winds
Swing them to and fro
With the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.
Even the willow leaves
Brooding silence keep;
All the great, good world is hushed--
Hushed that you may sleep!
But in heaven two wee, wee stars
Dance and whirl and glow
To the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.
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