f fear:
He never lifts his eyes above the ground
To gaze upon the glittering world of stars;
The poet's richest music only mars
The rasping of the locust's strident sound.
And yet I've never seen a wilder light
Glow in the beauteous eyes of dawning love,
Than flashes from this strange man's soul at sight
Of some rare flower he finds in mountain cove:
Mere fungus, or the poisonous, dank mushroom,
Enchants him more than rich magnolia bloom!

DEDICATION

_(To H. H. T.)_

O soul responsive to the subtlest thought
That flashes o'er the mind's electric wire,
Or ever swept the strings of fancy's lyre
To music learned in schools where Shakespeare taught:
O thou who knowest the springs whence Sappho caught
Love's brimming cup that did her song inspire,
Yet dost my plain, unlettered muse admire,
Who lived in better days when maidens wrought--

To thee, I dedicate my fondest rhymes
In memory of happy days of yore,
Together on the Cumberland, where Ruth,
The charming rustic maid of olden times
First won our love, less for her lack of lore,
Than for her sweet simplicity and truth.

NEARING THE MERIDIAN

_(To M. E. W.)_

I dream to-night of happy childhood days;
I see two humble homes and thrill with joy;
The years come back when I was but a boy,
And you had ringlets for the gods to praise:
The old Old Swing, the fields of golden maize;
The moving pictures in the clouds above;
The mating birds, their nests, their songs of love--
All this, dear Lord, through years of mist and haze!

And then I turn and look beyond the Shade,
And those who wrought for us are waiting there:
Our mothers with their crowns of silver hair,
And radiant smiles of love that will not fade;
Our fathers with the keys to all the creeds
Are there still strong in faith and pure in deeds.

OUR PILGRIMAGE

_(To the Canterbury Club)_

The merry band that started long ago
Upon their journey to a-Becket's shrine,
Were happy that a poet's pen divine
Inspired by all a genial wit can know,
Or sympathetic human heart bestow,
Recorded in immortal rhythmic line,
As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine,
Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.

We start to-night upon our pilgrimage,