The woods are greening overhead,
  And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
  The waters babble as they run—­
  One thing is lacking, only one: 
  If Mary were but here to-day,
  I would believe your charming lay,
    “Witchery—­witchery—­witchery!”

  Along the shady road I look—­
  Who’s coming now across the brook? 
  A woodland maid, all robed in white—­
  The leaves dance round her with delight,
  The stream laughs out beneath her feet—­
  Sing, merry bird, the charm’s complete,
    “Witchery—­witchery—­witchery!”

H. VAN DYKE.

[15] From “The Builders and Other Poems,” copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

The Silence of Love.

  Oh, inexpressible as sweet,
     Love takes my voice away;
  I cannot tell thee, when we meet,
     What most I long to say.

  But hadst thou hearing in thy heart
     To know what beats in mine,
  Then shouldst thou walk, where’er thou art,
     In melodies divine.

  So warbling birds lift higher notes
     Than to our ears belong;
  The music fills their throbbing throats,
     But silence steals the song.

G.E.  WOODBERRY.

The Secret.

  Nightingales warble about it,
     All night under blossom and star;
  The wild swan is dying without it,
     And the eagle cryeth afar;
  The sun he doth mount but to find it,
     Searching the green earth o’er;
  But more doth a man’s heart mind it,
     Oh, more, more, more!

  Over the gray leagues of ocean
     The infinite yearneth alone;
  The forests with wandering emotion
     The thing they know not intone;
  Creation arose but to see it,
     A million lamps in the blue;
  But a lover he shall be it
     If one sweet maid is true.

G.E.  WOODBERRY.

The Whip-poor-will.[16]

  Do you remember, father,—­
    It seems so long ago,—­
  The day we fished together
    Along the Pocono? 
  At dusk I waited for you,
    Beside the lumber-mill,
  And there I heard a hidden bird
    That chanted, “whip-poor-will,”
    “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    Sad and shrill,—­“whippoorwill!”

  The place was all deserted;
    The mill-wheel hung at rest;
  The lonely star of evening
    Was quivering in the west;
  The veil of night was falling;
    The winds were folded still;
  And everywhere the trembling air
    Re-echoed “whip-poor-will!”
    “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    Sad and shrill,—­“whippoorwill!”

  You seemed so long in coming,
    I felt so much alone;
  The wide, dark world was round me,
    And life was all unknown;
  The hand of sorrow touched me,
    And made my senses thrill
  With all the pain that haunts the strain
    Of mournful whip-poor-will.
    “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    Sad and shrill,—­“whippoorwill!”