lossoms slim,
And the wasps that built on the lichened limb.

And felt the silence, the dusk, the dread
Of the spot where they buried the unknown dead.

The water murmur, the insect hum,
And a far bird calling, _Come, oh, come!_--

What sweeter music can mortals make
To ease the heart of its human ache!--

And it seemed in my dream, that was all too true,
That I met in the woods again with you.

A sun-tanned face and brown bare knees,
And a hand stained red with dewberries.

And we stood a moment some thing to tell,
And then in the woods we said farewell.

But once I met you; yet, lo! it seems
Again and again we meet in dreams.

And I ask my soul what it all may mean;
If this is the love that should have been.

And oft and again I wonder, _Can_
_What God intends be changed by man?_

HOME.

Among the fields the camomile
Seems blown steam in the lightning's glare.
Unusual odors drench the air.
Night speaks above; the angry smile
Of storm within her stare.

The way for me to-night?--To-night,
Is through the wood whose branches fill
The road with dripping rain-drops. Till,
Between the boughs, a star-like light--
Our home upon the hill.

The path for me to take?--It goes
Around a trailer-tangled rock,
'Mid puckered pink and hollyhock,
Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose,
And door whereat I knock.

Bright on the old-time flower-place
The lamp streams through the foggy pane.
The door is opened to the rain;
And in the door--her happy face,
And eager hands again.

ASHLY MERE.

Come! look in the shadowy water here,
The stagnant water of Ashly Mere:
Where the stirless depths are dark but clear,
What is the thing that lies there?--
A lily-pod half sunk from sight?
Or spawn of the toad all water-white?
Or ashen blur of the moon's wan light?
Or a woman's face and eyes there?

Now lean to the water a listening ear,
The haunted water of Ashly Mere:
What is the sound that you seem to hear
In the ghostly hush of the deeps there?--
A withered reed that the ripple lips?
Or a night-bird's wing that the surface whips?
Or the rain in a leaf that drips and drips?
Or a woman's voice that weeps there?

Now look and listen! but draw not near
The lonely water of Ashly Mere!--
For so it happens this time each year
As you lean by the mere and listen:
And the moaning voice I un