THE CITY

Beyond the dusky corn-fields, toward the west,
  Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream,
  Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam,
Curved white and slender as a lady’s wrist,
Faint and far off out of the autumn mist,
  Even as a pointed jewel softly set
  In clouds of colour warmer, deeper yet,
Crimson and gold and rose and amethyst,
Toward dayset, where the journeying sun grown old
Hangs lowly westward darker now than gold,
With the soft sun-touch of the yellowing hours
  Made lovelier, I see with dreaming eyes,
  Even as a dream out of a dream, arise
The bell-tongued city with its glorious towers.

MIDSUMMER NIGHT

Mother of balms and soothings manifold,
  Quiet-breathed night whose brooding hours are seven,
  To whom the voices of all rest are given,
And those few stars whose scattered names are told,
Far off beyond the westward hills outrolled,
  Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even,
  The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven,
And under the one star—­a point of gold: 

And all go slowly lingering toward the west,
As we go down forgetfully to our rest,
  Weary of daytime, tired of noise and light: 
Ah, it was time that thou should’st come; for we
Were sore athirst, and had great need of thee,
  Thou sweet physician, balmy-blossomed night.

THE LOONS

Once ye were happy, once by many a shore,
  Wherever Glooscap’s gentle feet might stray,
  Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay
Floating at rest; but that was long of yore. 
He was too good for earthly men; he bore
  Their bitter deeds for many a patient day,
  And then at last he took his unseen way. 
He was your friend, and ye might rest no more: 

And now, though many hundred altering years
Have passed, among the desolate northern meres
  Still must ye search and wander querulously,
    Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light
  With weird entreaties, and in agony
    With awful laughter pierce the lonely night.

MARCH

Over the dripping roofs and sunk snow-barrows,
  The bells are ringing loud and strangely near,
  The shout of children dins upon mine ear
Shrilly, and like a flight of silvery arrows
Showers the sweet gossip of the British sparrows,
  Gathered in noisy knots of one or two,
  To joke and chatter just as mortals do
Over the days long tale of joys and sorrows;

Talk before bed-time of bold deeds together,
Of thefts and fights, of hard-times and the weather,
  Till sleep disarm them, to each little brain
    Bringing tucked wings and many a blissful dream,
    Visions of wind and sun, of field and stream,
  And busy barn-yards with their scattered grain.