I.

First I asked the honeybee,
Busy in the balmy bowers;
Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me:
Have you seen her, honeybee?
She is cousin to the flowers
All the sweetness of the south
In her wild-rose face and mouth."
But the bee passed silently.

II.

Then I asked the forest bird,
Warbling by the woodland waters;
Saying, "Dearest, have you heard?
Have you heard her, forest bird?
She is one of music's daughters
Never song so sweet by half
As the music of her laugh."
But the bird said not a word.

III.

Next I asked the evening sky,
Hanging out its lamps of fire;
Saying, "Loved one, passed she by?
Tell me, tell me, evening sky!
She, the star of my desire
Sister whom the Pleiads lost,
And my soul'...

    Fantasy, Capri. The edge of a pillow.
    Certain words - murmur, seashells.
    A face beckoning thru time, lacy windows with
    purple shades simultaneously drawn.
    Tears of gold. Love signs,
    glass of champagne.

    A tree of hemlock nearby. A delightful print
    tablecloth that signals the breeze. The courtier
    in fancy dress. Twin bottles of vintage wine abreast
    rider and horse.

    Potables. A blue eggshell. The sun stirring Virginia Creeper
    that moves in unison with the wind.

    Electra and electricity, the current that prods the mind.

Luck is the tuning of our inmost thought
    To chord with God's great plan.
    That done, ah! know,
Thy silent wishes to results shall grow,
And day by day shall miracles be wrought.
Once let thy being selflessly be brought
    To chime with universal good, and lo!
    What music from the spheres shall through thee flow!
What benefits shall come to thee unsought!

Shut out the noise of traffic!    Rise above
    The body's clamour!    With the soul's fine ear
    Attune thyself to harmonies divine -
All, all are written in the key of Love.
    Keep to the score, and thou hast naught to fear;
    Achievements yet undreamed of shall be thine.

Our present tears here, not our present laughter,
Are but the handsels of our joys hereafter.

Though Thou be'st all that active love
Which heats those ravished souls above;
And though all joys spring from the glance
Of Thy most winning countenance;
Yet sour and grim Thou'dst seem to me
If through my Christ I saw not Thee.

    The damsel from the field returns,
    The sun is sinking in the west;
    Her bundle on her head she sets,
    And in her hand she bears
    A bunch of roses and of violets.
    To-morrow is a holiday,
    And she, as usual, must them wear
    Upon her bodice, in her hair.
    The old crone sits among her mates,
    Upon the stairs, and spins;
    And, looking at the fading light,
    Of good old-fashioned times she prates,
    When she, too, dressed for holidays,
    And with light heart, and limb as light,
    Would dance at night
    With the companions of her merry days.
    The twilight shades around us close,
    The sky to deepest blue is turned;
    From hills and roofs the shadows fall,
    And the new moon her face of silver shows...

Tom's album was filled with the pictures of belles
    Who had captured his manly heart,
From the fairy who danced for the front-row swells
    To the maiden who tooled her cart;
But one face as fair as a cloudless dawn
    Caught my eye, and I said, "Who's this?"
"Oh, that," he replied, with a skilful yawn,
    "Is the girl I couldn't kiss."

Her face was the best in the book, no doubt,
    But I hastily turned the leaf,
For my friend had let his cigar go out,
    And I knew I had bared his grief:
For caresses we win and smiles we gain
    Yield only a transient bliss,
And we're all of us prone to sigh in vain
    For "the girl we couldn't kiss."

We have not seen the sun for many days,
But now through East-wind haze
He makes a shift
To send a luminous drift,
To which, as to his full unclouded splendour,
The meek, contented earth makes glad surrender.
God bless the simple earth
That gave me birth!
God bless her that she looks so pleased,
The soul thai is diseased
With this world's sorrow,
Well, sir? ought to look?
Beyond, and yet beyond: not in this narrow nook of His creation
Will God make up His book.
The whole is one great scheme of compensation
The net result
Is all . . . I too have had my dream,
As from my nonage dedicate a meustgx
Of that great cult.
I saw Lord Love upon his galley pass
Westward from Cyprus; smooth as glass
The sea was all before him. He, as keleustgx

    Artists (astrologers never lie)
    are birthed when
    Venus is rising -
    not against cat's whelp
    (eye of newt, tongue of frog)
    calamitous mist or London fog;
    far, ferny forbidding fenn.

    When Venus rises, yes
    dons Botticelli's cloak
    or was it her hair
    gathered in tresses
    long by lovely handfuls
    parading it all
    on a patty shell
    - her twin oysters ambrosia
    a Ulyssean mirroring winedark sea,
    purpling color of a robin's egg.

    Artists are born
    in something of Venus . . .
    conceived along coral-corral
    highway lariats, foam
    of passion
    modern cowgirl
    lowering the drapes.

Words are great forces in the realm of life:
    Be careful of their use.    Who talks of hate,
Of poverty, of sickness, but sets rife
    These very elements to mar his fate.

When love, health, happiness, and plenty hear
    Their names repeated over day by day,
They wing their way like answering fairies near,
    Then nestle down within our homes to stay.

Who talks of evil conjures into shape
    The formless thing and gives it life and scope.
This is the law:    then let no word escape
    That does not breathe of everlasting hope.

[One of the Bearers soliloquizes:]

. . . Room in your heart for him, O Mother Earth,
Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair,
And sang your praise in verses manifold
And delicate, with here and there a line
From end to end in blossom like a bough
The May breathes on, so rich it was.    Some thought
The workmanship more costly than the thing
Moulded or carved, as in those ornaments
Found at Mycaene.    And yet Nature's self
Works in this wise; upon a blade of grass,
Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush,
Lavishing endless patience.    He was born
Artist, not artisan, which some few saw
And many dreamed not.    As he wrote no odes
When Croesus wedded or Maecenas died,
And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows,
He missed the gla...

Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade,
Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes?
Such little stars were never made,
I'm sure, to shine thro' misty skies.

Say, are they wrapt in so much shade,
That they may more successful rise,
Starting from such soft ambuscade,
To catch and kill us by surprise?

Or, of their various pow'rs afraid,
Is it in mercy to our sighs,
Lest love, o'er many a heart betray'd,
Should sob "a faithful vot'ry dies"?

Then, oh! remove the envious shade;
Let others wear, who want, disguise:
We all had sooner die, sweet maid,
To see, than live without, those eyes.

Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;
Sending sad shadows after things not sad,
Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe:
Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry
Becomes an echo of man's misery.

Blithe ravens croak of death; and when the owl
Tries his two voices for a favourite strain
'Tu-whit, Tu-whoo!' the unsuspecting fowl
Forebodes mishap or seems but to complain;
Fancy, intent to harass and annoy,
Can thus pervert the evidence of joy.

Through border wilds where naked Indians stray,
Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill;
A feathered task-master cries, "Work away!"
And, in thy iteration, "Whip poor will!"
Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave,
Lashed out of life, not quiet in the g...

Never knew Jim, did you? Our boy Jim?
Bless you, there was the likely lad;
Supple and straight and long of limb,
Clean as a whistle, and just as glad.
Always laughing, wasn't he, dad?
Joy, pure joy to the heart of him,
And, oh, but the soothering ways he had,
                                Jim, our Jim!

But I see him best as a tiny tot,
A bonny babe, though it's me that speaks;
Laughing there in his little cot,
With his sunny hair and his apple cheeks.
And my! but the blue, blue eyes he'd got,
And just where his wee mouth dimpled dim
Such a fairy mark like a beauty spot -
                                That was Jim.

Oh, the war, the war! How my eyes were wet!
But he says: "Don't be sorrowing, mother dear;
You never knew me to fail you y...

Through the pauses of thy fervid singing
        Fell crystal sound
That thy fingers from the keys were flinging
        Lightly around:
I felt the vine-like harmonies close clinging
        About my soul;
And to my eyes, as fruit of their sweet bringing,
        The full tear stole!

Token of friendship true and tried,
From one whose fiery heart of youth
With mine has beaten, side by side,
For Liberty and Truth;
With honest pride the gift I take,
And prize it for the giver's sake.
But not alone because it tells
Of generous hand and heart sincere;
Around that gift of friendship dwells
A memory doubly dear;
Earth's noblest aim, man's holiest thought,
With that memorial frail inwrought!
Pure thoughts and sweet like flowers unfold,
And precious memories round it cling,
Even as the Prophet's rod of old
In beauty blossoming:
And buds of feeling, pure and good,
Spring from its cold unconscious wood.
Relic of Freedom's shrine! a brand
Plucked from its burning! let it be
Dear as a jewel from the hand
Of a lost friend to me!...

You never can tell when you send a word,
    Like an arrow shot from a bow
By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind,
    Just where it may chance to go.
It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend.
    Tipped with its poison or balm,
To a stranger's heart in life's great mart,
    It may carry its pain or its calm.

You never can tell when you do an act
    Just what the result will be;
But with every deed you are sowing a seed,
    Though the harvest you may not see.
Each kindly act is an acorn dropped
    In God's productive soil
You may not know, but the tree shall grow,
    With shelter for those who toil.

You never can tell what your thoughts will do,
    In bringing you hate or love;
For thoughts are things, and their airy wings

Of all the days in memory's list,
Those motley banish'd days;
Some overhung with sorrow's mist,
Some gilt with hopeful rays;
There is a day 'bove all the rest
That has a lovely sound,
There is a day I love the best--
When Patty first was found.

When first I look'd upon her eye,
And all her charms I met,
There's many a day gone heedless by,
But that I'll ne'er forget;
I met my love beneath the tree,
I help'd her o'er the stile,
The very shade is dear to me
That blest me with her smile.

Strange to the world my artless fair,
But artless as she be,
She found the witching art when there
To win my heart from me;
And all the days the year can bring,
As sweet as they may prove,
There'll ne'er come one like that I sing,
Wh...