oud,
Gladly go back to the humming of bees,
Carols of birds, and the whisper of trees,
Gladly dispense with the voices of men,
Thankful to hear only Nature again.

Out from the mob with its furious pace
Into the cool, quiet reaches of space;
Rid of Society's glittering chains,
Fleeing a prison and finding the plains;
Far from the clangor of murderous cars,
Losing the limelight, but gaining ... the stars!

Others may live in the turbulent throng,
Others may struggle to rectify wrong,
Strive with the strenuous, laugh with the gay,
I too have striven and laughed in my day;
But of life's blessings I crave now the best,--
Freedom for solitude, silence, and rest.

IN NOVEMBER

Under my trees of green and gold
I stroll in the soft, autumnal days,
With never a hint of winter's cold,
Though the mountain sides are a brilliant maze
Which spreads from the gleaming lake below
To gild the edge of the distant snow.

Closed are the stately inns once more;
Flown, like the birds, is the latest guest;
Many have gone to a southern shore,
Some to the east and some to the west;
But the smiling landlords count their gains,
And we know well that the best remains.

For the walls are lined with precious books,
And the hearth and home are always here,
And the garden hath a score of nooks,
Where flowers bloom throughout the year;
And now that the restless crowd is gone
I hear the flute of my rustic Faun.

Why should I grieve, if from my trees
The gorgeous leaves fall, one by one?
Through the clearer space with greater ease
I feel the warmth of the genial sun;
And though the plane-trees stand bereft,
The pines and cypresses are left.

Does the gay world leave us? Well, good-bye!
It will come again--perhaps too soon!
We have the mountains, lake, and sky,
And solitude is a precious boon.
Yet the falling leaves, so fair and fleet,--
Their memory, after all, is sweet.

THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

Over the water the shadows are creeping,
Lost are the lights on Bellagio's shore,
Goddess and Faun in the garden are sleeping,
Only the fountain sings on as before.

Low as its murmur, when daintily falling,
Sweet as its plaintive, mellifluous song,
Voices of absent ones seem to be calling:--
"Come to us! Come! thou hast waited too long."

Vainly I call it a childish delusion,
Vainly attempt to regard it with mirth,
Still do I hear in my spirit's seclusion
Voices I loved in the land of my birth.

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