he sombre cedar and the ivy green.

Upon the stone
Of each in turn who called this land his own

The gray rain beats
And wraps the wet world in its flying sheets,

And at my eaves
A slow wind, ghostlike, comes and grieves and grieves.

An Invalid

I care not what his name for God may be,
Nor what his wisdom holds of heaven and hell,
The alphabet whereby he strives to spell
His lines of life, nor where he bends his knee,
Since, with his grave before him, he can see
White Peace above it, while the churchyard bell
Poised in its tower, poised now, to boom his knell,
Seems but the waiting tongue of liberty.

For names and knowledge, idle breed of breath,
And cant and creed, the progeny of strife,
Thronging the safe, companioned streets of life,
Shrink trembling from the cold, clear eye of death,
And learn too late why dying lips can smile:
That goodness is the only creed worth while.

A Caged Mocking-Bird

I pass a cobbler's shop along the street
And pause a moment at the door-step, where,
In nature's medley, piping cool and sweet,
The songs that thrill the swamps when spring is near,
Fly o'er the fields at fullness of the year,
And twitter where the autumn hedges run,
Join all the months of music into one.

I shut my eyes: the shy wood-thrush is there,
And all the leaves hang still to catch his spell;
Wrens cheep among the bushes; from somewhere
A bluebird's tweedle passes o'er the fell;
From rustling corn bob-white his name doth tell;
And when the oriole sets his full heart free
Barefooted boyhood comes again to me.

The vision-bringer hangs upon a nail
Before a dusty window, looking dim
On marts where trade goes hot with box and bale;
The sad-eyed passers have no time for him.
His captor sits, with beaded face and grim,
Plying a listless awl, as in a dream
Of pastures winding by a shady stream.

Gray bird, what spirit bides with thee unseen?
For now, when every songster finds his love
And makes his nest where woods are deep and green,
Free as the winds, thy song should mock the dove.
If I were thou, my grief in moans should move
At thinking--otherwhere, by others' art
Charmed and forgetful--of mine own sweetheart.