Who hath a heart courageous
  Rests with tranquillity,
For Time he counts not as his foe,
  Nor Death his enemy.

A SONG

Love maketh its own summer time,
  ’Tis June, Love, when we are together,
And little I care for the frost in the air,
  For the heart makes its own summer weather.

Love maketh its own winter time,
  And though the hills blossom with heather,
If you are not near, ’tis December, my dear,
  For the heart makes its own winter weather.

THE CALL

Across the dusty, foot-worn street
  Unblessed of flower or tree,
Faint and far-off—­there ever sounds
  The calling of the sea.

From out the quiet of the hills,
  Where purple shadows lie,
The pine trees murmur, “Come and rest
  And let the world go by.”

The west wind whispers all night long
  “Oh, journey forth afar
To the green and pleasant places
  Where little rivers are!”

And the soft and silken rustling
  Of bending yellow wheat
Says, “See the harvest moon—­that dims
  The arc-lights of the street.”

Though the city holds thee captive
  By trick, and wile, and lure,
Out yonder lies the loveliness
  Of things that shall endure.

The river road is wide and fair,
  The prairie-path is free,
And still the old earth waits to give
  Her strength and joy to thee.

THE KNIGHT-ERRANT

Keen in his blood ran the old mad desire
  To right the world’s wrongs and champion truth;
Deep in his eyes shone a heaven-lit fire,
  And royal and radiant day-dreams of youth!

Gracious was he to both beggar and stranger,
  And for a rose tossed from fair finger-tips
He would have ridden hard-pressed through all danger,
  The rose on his heart and a song on his lips!

All the king’s foes he counted his foemen;
  His not to say that a cause could be lost;
Spirits like his faced the enemies’ bowmen
  On long vanished fields—­nor counted the cost.

Wide was his out-look and far was his vision;
  Soul-fretting trifles he sent down the wind;
Small griefs gained only his cheerful derision,—­
  God’s weather always was fair to his mind.

But he would comfort a child who was crying,
  Knightly his deed to all such in distress;
Never a beast by the road-side lay dying
  He did not stoop to with gentle caress.

And by the old, and the sad, and the broken,
  Often he lingered, a well-beloved guest;
Dear was his voice, whatever the word spoken,
  Sweetening their day with a song or a jest.

In the far times of brave ballad and story,
  Men of his make kept the gates of the sea,
Wrought mighty deeds of power and glory,
  Scattered their tyrants, and set the land free!