r moon,
And mowers laughed in my shade
In the harvest heat at noon.

Children roving the fields
With early flowers in spring,
Old men turning to look,
When they heard a bluebird sing,

Have seen me a thousand times
Standing here in the sun,
Yet never a moment dreamed
Whose likeness they gazed upon.

Ah, when will ye understand,
Mortals who strive and plod,--
Who rests on this old gray wall
Lays a hand on the shoulder of God!

Te Deum

If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all
things laid,
The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade,
When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush
of its glory now,
That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and
the head to bow.

I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness,
too,--
The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping from
line and hue;
I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth
of ours,
Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with
all her powers.

See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside
of hardwood trees,
A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries.
A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion
and dun,
Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue
of the sun!

The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves
are Etruscan gold,
And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for
a signal bold;
The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass
In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring
is brought to pass.

Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and
softer picture lies,
As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream
of paradise,--
Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and
luring the mind
With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap
are left behind.

So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and
endless joy,
Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine
employ,
Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear,