hare is strangling in the forest,
And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.

THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD: WALTER DE LA MARE

Some one is always sitting there,
In the little green orchard;
Even when the sun is high
In noon's unclouded sky,
And faintly droning goes
The bee from rose to rose,
Some one in shadow is sitting there,
In the little green orchard.

Yes, and when twilight's falling softly
On the little green orchard;
When the gray dew distils
And every flower cup fills;
When the last blackbird says,
"What--what!" and goes her way--ssh!
I have heard voices calling softly
In the little green orchard.

Not that I am afraid of being there,
In the little green orchard;
Why, when the moon's been bright,
Shedding her lonesome light,
And moths like ghosties come,
And the horned snail leaves home:
I've stayed there, whispering and listening there,
In the little green orchard.

Only it's strange to be feeling there,
In the little green orchard;
Whether you paint or draw,
Dig, hammer, chop or saw,
When you are most alone,
All but the silence gone ...
Some one is waiting and watching there,
In the little green orchard.

FIREFLIES: LOUISE DRISCOLL

What are you, fireflies,
That come as daylight dies?
Are you the old, old dead,
Creeping through the long grass,
To see the green leaves move
And feel the light wind pass?

The larkspur in my garden
Is a sea of rose and blue,
The white moth is a ghost ship
Drifting through.

The shadows fall like lilacs
Raining from a garden sky,
Pollen laden bees go home,
Bird songs die.

The honeysuckle breaks a flask,
And a breeze, on pleasure bent,
Catches in her little hands
The sharp scent.

In the darkness and the dew
Come the little, flying flames,
Are they the forgotten dead,
Without names?

Did they love the leaves and wind,
Grass and gardens long ago
With a love that draws them home
Where things grow?

For an hour with green leaves,
Love immortal leaped to flame,
From the earth into the night
Old hearts came.

What are you, fireflies,
That come as daylight dies?

THE LITTLE GHOST: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I knew her for a little ghost