ooning cool-like in my veins.
Who could smell the white azalea thinking then of sin,
Or look on laurel buds a-caring for her pains?
It's just my heart breaks open and the wild flood rains.
O beauty of the moon-mist winding, winding slow,
Till the tall lynns quiver vainly up to hold
One leafy moment more the breathing, gliding flow
Of the loosened wreath of silver lifting into gold!

The moosewood bride is glowing, all her curls awave,
The colt's-foot in millions makes the ground like a bed,
So sweet-breathed and green now, in winter scarlet brave,
And blossom lips of tulip trees are meeting overhead,
But never shall a tear fall for their love spent and dead.
Doves are building yonder in that clump of maples deep,
Do maple leaves come soonest for they love to hide
The earliest nest and hear the first faint cheep
Telling them of joy too dear, too sweet to bide?

The joy that was my own, Jim, when our birdling came,
Telling me that love is never spent and dead,--
Though you left the tears to me, and left to me the shame,--
For the wildwood broke in blossoms round my bed,
And the fairest on my bosom laid its stainless head.
Can God who made this night His own great heart to please,
And made that other night like this a year ago,
Be mad at us for loving? I fall upon my knees
And beg Him bless you, bless you ever, Jim of Tellico!

YE WHO ARE TO SING

O silence of all silences, where wait
Fame's unblown years whose choir my soul would greet!
Graves, nor dead Time, are sealed so dumb in fate,
For Death and Time must pass on echoing feet.
No grass-locked vault, no sculptured winding-sheet,
No age-embalmed hour with mummied wing,
Is bosomed in such stillness, vast, complete,
As wraps the future, and no prayer may bring
From that unfathomed pause one minstrel murmuring.

Yet never earth a lyreless dawn shall know;
No moon shall move unharped to her pale home;
No midnight wreathe its chain of choric glow
But answering eye flash rhythmic to the dome.
No path shall lie too deep in forest gloam
For the blithe singer's tread; no winds fore'er
Blow lute-lorn barks o'er unawakened foam;
Nor hidden isle sleep so enwaved but there
Shall touch and land at last Apollo's mariner.

And soon shall wake that