I. POEMS

Among the Millet
April
An October Sunset
The Frogs
An Impression
Spring on the River
Why do ye call the Poet lonely
Heat
Among the Timothy
Freedom
Morning on the Lievres
In October
Lament of the Winds
Ballade of Summer’s Sleep
Winter
Winter Hues Recalled
Storm
Midnight
Song of the Stream-Drops
Between the Rapids
New Year’s Eve
Unrest
Song
One Day
Sleep
Three Flower Petals
Passion
A Ballade of Waiting
Before Sleep
A Song
What Do Poets Want With Gold? 
The King’s Sabbath
The Little Handmaiden
Abu Midjan
The Weaver
The Three Pilgrims
The Coming of Winter
Easter Eve
The Organist
The Monk
The Child’s Music Lesson
An Athenian Reverie

II.  SONNETS

Love-Doubt
Perfect Love
Love-Wonder
Comfort
Despondency
Outlook
Gentleness
A Prayer
Music
Knowledge
Sight
An Old Lesson from the Fields
Winter-Thought
Deeds
Aspiration
The Poets
The Truth
The Martyrs
A Night of Storm
The Railway Station
A Forecast
In November
The City
Midsummer Night
The Loons
March
Solitude
Autumn Maples
The Dog

I.

POEMS

AMONG THE MILLET

The dew is gleaming in the grass,
  The morning hours are seven,
And I am fain to watch you pass,
  Ye soft white clouds of heaven.

Ye stray and gather, part and fold;
  The wind alone can tame you;
I think of what in time of old
  The poets loved to name you.

They called you sheep, the sky your sward,
  A field without a reaper;
They called the shining sun your lord,
  The shepherd wind your keeper.

Your sweetest poets I will deem
  The men of old for moulding
In simple beauty such a dream,
  And I could lie beholding,

Where daisies in the meadow toss,
  The wind from morn till even,
Forever shepherd you across
  The shining field of heaven.

APRIL

Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense,
Still priestess of the patient middle day,
Betwixt wild March’s humored petulance
And the warm wooing of green kirtled May,
Maid month of sunny peace and sober grey,
Weaver of flowers in sunward glades that ring
With murmur of libation to the spring: 

As memory of pain, all past, is peace,
And joy, dream-tasted, hath the deepest cheer,
So art thou sweetest of all months that lease
The twelve short spaces of the flying year. 
The bloomless days are dead, and frozen fear
No more for many moons shall vex the earth,
Dreaming of summer and fruit laden mirth.