The clouds pile up their largess tenderly
As if to clothe the beauty of the sea
In filmy gossamer and soft brocade.

And far away I think I almost hear
A horn's faint echo through the dusk-hour's veil
As in the happy, golden days of yore--
Mayhap, e'en now upon this magic mere
Frail shallops will flit by and mermaids pale
Will lure us back to fairy-land once more!

The Silent Country

Wave, wave sweet blooms of May and on your wings
Bear me away with drowsy winnowings
To some far twilight land where steals a stream
From out the cool and soundless groves of Dream.

For in the Spring is such a bitter smart
Even the thought of it will break my heart,
So take me softly to a leafy bed
Where I shall dream and dream you are not dead!

The Sport of a God

Though they say Jove laughs at the lover's vow--
At the lover's vow that must break some day--
Still we smiled as we loved in a distant May
When the blooms were heavy upon the bough.

O, the mocking difference of then and now!
It isn't a thought that will make one gay,
Though they say Jove laughs at the lover's vow--
At the lover's vow that must break some day.

Yet, perhaps, the god knows the best way how
To carry a mask when the feet are clay;
So I too shall laugh at the merry play,
For down in his heart there's a knife, I trow,
Though they say Jove laughs at the lover's vow.

Remembrance

Sweet rosemary within the lane
The while the day is warm and clear,
And ne'er a thought of bitter rain
Or the road-side sere.

But there are flowers more dear to me
That time can never set apart--
The fragrant blooms of memory
That grow within the heart.

In Days of Old

Of all the ages' gain, the ages' loss,
A wealth of wonders and so much away--
When now hears one the woodland elves at play,
Or angry dryads where tall tree-tops toss.
No more they lightly tread the dewy moss
As danced they through cool haunts in ecstasy;
But rank and lost the paths in lone decay
Where fairy footsteps once were wont to cross.

O, happy Greeks, who knew the gods so well,
To you I burn my sacrificial fire!
Again reveal the mystic hidden rune
Whereby to find the slopes of asphodel--
Ah, then to hear Apollo charm his lyre
And see Diana 'neath the sickle moon.

We Once Built a House o'