Part 8 (1/2)

Then was the _real_ gold Spendthrift Summer flung; Then was the _real_ song Bird or Poet sung!

There was never censure then,-- Only honest praise-- And all things were worthy of it In the old days.

There bide the true friends-- The first and the best; There clings the green gra.s.s Close where they rest: Would they were here? No;-- Would _we_ were _there_!...

The old days--the lost days-- How lovely they were!

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A SPRING SONG AND A LATER

She sang a song of May for me, Wherein once more I heard The mirth of my glad infancy-- The orchard's earliest bird-- The joyous breeze among the trees New-clad in leaf and bloom, And there the happy honey-bees In dewy gleam and gloom.

So purely, sweetly on the sense Of heart and spirit fell Her song of Spring, its influence-- Still irresistible,-- Commands me here--with eyes ablur-- To mate her bright refrain.

Though I but shed a rhyme for her As dim as Autumn rain.

KNEELING WITH HERRICK

Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent-- Give me content-- Full-pleasured with what comes to me, Whate'er it be: An humble roof--a frugal board, And simple h.o.a.rd; The wintry f.a.got piled beside The chimney wide, While the enwreathing flames up-sprout And twine about The brazen dogs that guard my hearth And household worth: Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow The rafters low; And let the sparks snap with delight, As fingers might That mark deft measures of some tune The children croon: Then, with good friends, the rarest few Thou boldest true, Ranged round about the blaze, to share My comfort there,-- Give me to claim the service meet That makes each seat A place of honor, and each guest Loved as the rest.

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THE RAINY MORNING

The dawn of the day was dreary, And the lowering clouds o'erhead Wept in a silent sorrow Where the sweet suns.h.i.+ne lay dead; And a wind came out of the eastward Like an endless sigh of pain, And the leaves fell down in the pathway And writhed in the falling rain.

I had tried in a brave endeavor To chord my harp with the sun, But the strings would slacken ever, And the task was a weary one: And so, like a child impatient And sick of a discontent, I bowed in a shower of teardrops And mourned with the instrument.

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor Of the sun bent over me, With a touch as warm and tender As a father's hand might be: And even as I felt its presence, My clouded soul grew bright, And the tears, like the rain of morning, Melted in mists of light.

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REACH YOUR HAND TO ME

Reach your hand to me, my friend, With its heartiest caress-- Sometime there will come an end To its present faithfulness-- Sometime I may ask in vain For the touch of it again, When between us land or sea Holds it ever back from me.