Once the daisies gold and white
  Sea-like through the meadow rolled: 
  Once my heart could hardly hold
  All its pleasures.  I remember,
  In the flood of youth’s delight
  Separate joys were lost to sight. 
  That was summer!  Now November
  Sets the perfect flower apart;
  Gives each blossom of the heart
  Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,—­
  Blooming late and all alone.

November, 1899.

THE ANGLER’S REVEILLE

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,
And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light,
’Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree,
And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.

This is the carol the Robin throws
Over the edge of the valley;
Listen how boldly it flows,
Sally on sally: 
Tirra-lirra,
Early morn,
New born! 
Day is near,
Clear, clear. 
Down the river
All a-quiver,
Fish are breaking;
Time for waking,
Tup, tup, tup! 
Do you hear? 
All clear—­
Wake up!

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark,
And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark;
Now forth she fares thro’ friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew,
While every voice cries out “Rejoice!” as if the world were new.

This is the ballad the Bluebird sings,
Unto his mate replying,
Shaking the tune from his wings
While he is flying: 
Surely, surely, surely,
Life is dear
Even here. 
Blue above,
You to love,
Purely, purely, purely.

There’s wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell,
And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well;
The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink,
Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.

This is the song of the Yellow-throat,
Fluttering gaily beside you;
Hear how each voluble note
Offers to guide you: 
Which way, sir? 
I say, sir,
Let me teach you,
I beseech you! 
Are you wishing
Jolly fishing? 
This way, sir! 
I’ll teach you.

Then come, my friend, forget your foes and leave your fears behind,
And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind;
For be your fortune great or small, you take what God will give,
And all the day your heart will say, “’Tis luck enough to live.”

This is the song the Brown Thrush flings
Out of his thicket of roses;
Hark how it bubbles and rings,
Mark how it closes: 
Luck, luck,
What luck? 
Good enough for me,
I’m alive, you see! 
Sun shining,
No repining;
Never borrow
Idle sorrow;
Drop it! 
Cover it up! 
Hold your cup! 
Joy will fill it,
Don’t spill it,
Steady, be ready,
Good luck!