RAIN-SONGS

  The rain streams down like harp-strings from the sky;
    The wind, that world-old harpist sitteth by;
  And ever as he sings his low refrain,
    He plays upon the harp-strings of the rain.

A LOST DREAM

  Ah, I have changed, I do not know
  Why lonely hours affect me so. 
  In days of yore, this were not wont,
  No loneliness my soul could daunt.

  For me too serious for my age,
  The weighty tome of hoary sage,
  Until with puzzled heart astir,
  One God-giv’n night, I dreamed of her.

  I loved no woman, hardly knew
  More of the sex that strong men woo
  Than cloistered monk within his cell;
  But now the dream is lost, and hell

  Holds me her captive tight and fast
  Who prays and struggles for the past. 
  No living maid has charmed my eyes,
  But now, my soul is wonder-wise.

  For I have dreamed of her and seen
  Her red-brown tresses’ ruddy sheen,
  Have known her sweetness, lip to lip,
  The joy of her companionship.

  When days were bleak and winds were rude,
  She shared my smiling solitude,
  And all the bare hills walked with me
  To hearken winter’s melody.

  And when the spring came o’er the land
  We fared together hand in hand
  Beneath the linden’s leafy screen
  That waved above us faintly green.

  In summer, by the river-side,
  Our souls were kindred with the tide
  That floated onward to the sea
  As we swept toward Eternity.

  The bird’s call and the water’s drone
  Were all for us and us alone. 
  The water-fall that sang all night
  Was her companion, my delight,

  And e’en the squirrel, as he sped
  Along the branches overhead,
  Half kindly and half envious,
  Would chatter at the joy of us.

  ’Twas but a dream, her face, her hair,
  The spring-time sweet, the winter bare,
  The summer when the woods we ranged,—­
  ’Twas but a dream, but all is changed.

  Yes, all is changed and all has fled,
  The dream is broken, shattered, dead. 
  And yet, sometimes, I pray to know
  How just a dream could hold me so.

A SONG

  Thou art the soul of a summer’s day,
  Thou art the breath of the rose. 
      But the summer is fled
      And the rose is dead
  Where are they gone, who knows, who knows?

  Thou art the blood of my heart o’ hearts,
  Thou art my soul’s repose,
      But my heart grows numb
      And my soul is dumb
  Where art thou, love, who knows, who knows?

  Thou art the hope of my after years—­
  Sun for my winter snows
      But the years go by
      ’Neath a clouded sky. 
  Where shall we meet, who knows, Who knows?

MISCELLANEOUS