Volume Iii Part 16 (2/2)

When the bubble moon is young, Down the sources of the breeze, Like a yellow lantern hung In the tops of blackened trees, There is promise she will grow Into beauty unforetold, Into all unthought-of gold.

Heigh ho!

When the Spring has dipped her foot, Like a bather, in the air, And the ripples warm the root Till the little flowers dare, There is promise she will grow Sweeter than the Springs of old, Fairer than was ever told.

Heigh ho!

But the moon of middle night, Risen, is the rounded moon; And the Spring of budding light Eddies into just a June.

Ah, the promise--was it so?

Nay, the gift was fairy gold; All the new is over-old.

Heigh ho!

Harrison Smith Morris [1856-

HARVEST

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Is the wind's song, Astir in the rippled wheat All day long, It hath the brook's wild gayety, The sorrowful cry of the sea.

Oh, hush and hear!

Sweet, sweet and clear, Above the locust's whirr And hum of bee Rises that soft, pathetic harmony.

In the meadow-gra.s.s The innocent white daisies blow, The dandelion plume doth pa.s.s Vaguely to and fro,-- The unquiet spirit of a flower That hath too brief an hour.

Now doth a little cloud all white, Or golden bright, Drift down the warm, blue sky; And now on the horizon line, Where dusky woodlands lie, A sunny mist doth s.h.i.+ne, Like to a veil before a holy shrine, Concealing, half-revealing, things divine.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Is the wind's song, Astir in the rippled wheat All day long.

That exquisite music calls The reaper everywhere-- Life and death must share.

The golden harvest falls.

So doth all end,-- Honored Philosophy, Science and Art, The bloom of the heart;-- Master, Consoler, Friend, Make Thou the harvest of our days To fall within Thy ways.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]

SCYTHE SONG

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the gra.s.s below?

Scythes that swing in the gra.s.s and clover, Something, still, they say as they pa.s.s; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and gra.s.s?

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; Hush, they say to the gra.s.ses swaying, Hush, they sing to the clover deep!

Hush--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- Hush, and heed not, for all things pa.s.s, Hush, ah hus.h.!.+ and the Scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the gra.s.s!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

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