No silent, trembling star shines there, on high: 
The hollow rivers, that were still and dry,
  Begin to murmur; falls a gentle spray
        Across the hills.

The stubble colors through the fallen hay,
And infant grasses pin the moistened clay;
  The drooping trees shake off their dust and sigh;
  And waking nature, with a gladdened eye,
Beholds the summer lose its ending day,
        Across the hills.

NORMAN HUTCHINSON.
Cornell Magazine.

Four-o’clocks.

It was that they loved the children,
  The children used to say,
  For there was no doubt
  That when school was out,
At the same time every day,
  Down by the wall,
  Where the grass grew tall,
Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,
  One by one,
  At the touch of the sun,
There opened the four-o’clocks.

It was that they loved the children;—­
But the children have gone away,
  And somebody goes
  When nobody knows,
At the same time every day,
  To see by the wall,
  Where the grass grows tall,
Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,
  How, one by one,
  At the touch of the sun,
Still open the four-o’clocks.

LILLIAN B. QUIMBY.
Wellesley Magazine,

The Voice of the West Wind.

The Wind of the East and the Wind of the North
From the gates of the Sun and the Cold blow forth: 
They wander wide and they wander free,
But never a word do they speak to me;
I hear but the voice I know the best,
Of my brother-in-blood the Wind of the West,
And the word that the West Wind whispers me,
Is a message, Heart of my heart, for thee.

Heart of my heart, when the skies hang low,
And all day long the light winds blow,
When the South, and the East, and the North, are gray
And the soft rain falls through the autumn day,
Then, Light of my soul, canst thou not hear
The voice of the West Wind, soft and clear? 
“Come,” he whispers, and “Come,” again,
Leave the dull skies and the steady rain,
Leave thou the lowlands and chill gray sea,
Heart of my own heart, and come with me.

ROBERT PALFREY UTTER.
Harvard Monthly

A Fairy Barcarolle.

My skiff is of bark from the white birch-tree,
  A butterfly’s wing is my sail,
And twisted grasses my cordage be,
  Stretched taut by the favoring gale.

My cushions are pearly gossamers frail,
  My mast is a tapering reed,
My rudder a blush-rose petal pale,
  My ballast of wild-flower seed.

Through forests old and meads remote
  We’ll sail on the leaf-arched streams,
Down the silver rivers of Fancy float
  To the golden sea of dreams.

WILLIAM HOLDEN EDDY.
Brown Magazine.

A Bird’s Cradle-Song.

  Weary, weary loves! 
    Day is o’er and past;
  Every drooping lily bell
    Chimes good-night at last. 
  Softly! nursing winds
    Swing them to and fro
With the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.