Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted,
    Now on the peach-tree, the glory of the rose,
  Far o’er the hills a tender haze is drifted,
    Full to the brim the yellow river flows. 
  Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten,
    Greener than emeralds shining in the sun. 
  Whence comes the magic?  Listen, sweetheart, listen! 
    The mocking-bird is singing:  Spring is begun.

  Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving! 
    All of his heart he pours into his lay,—­
  “Love, love, love, and pure delight of living: 
    Winter is forgotten:  here’s a happy day!”
  Fair in your face I read the flowery presage,
    Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth: 
  Sweet in your voice I hear the season’s message,—­
    Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!

1904.

A NOON SONG

  There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
    For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
  But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
    And sing us a song of the glory of noon? 
        Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
          The noon with golden crest;
        When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
          With his face to the way of the west!

  How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength! 
    How slowly he crept as the morning wore by! 
  Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
    To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky. 
        Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
          The toil that may not rest,
        Till the sun looks down from his journey’s crown,
          To the wonderful way of the west!

  Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
    The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,
  The river runs softly, the birds are all still,
    The workers are resting all over the world. 
        Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
          The hour that calms the breast! 
        Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
          Where it follows the turn to the west!

  There’s a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
    The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
  The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
    To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon. 
        Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,
          Of all the day the best! 
        When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
          To his home by the way of the west!

1906.

LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES

  Long, long, long the trail
    Through the brooding forest-gloom,
  Down the shadowy, lonely vale
    Into silence, like a room
      Where the light of life has fled,
    And the jealous curtains close
    Round the passionless repose
      Of the silent dead.