Ef ‘t had n’t a’ b’en fur you, you slow ole fool, I ‘d a’ be’n home
  long fo’ now!

DAWN

  An angel, robed in spotless white,
  Bent down and kissed the sleeping Night. 
  Night woke to blush; the sprite was gone. 
  Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.

A DROWSY DAY

  The air is dark, the sky is gray,
    The misty shadows come and go,
  And here within my dusky room
  Each chair looks ghostly in the gloom. 
    Outside the rain falls cold and slow—­
  Half-stinging drops, half-blinding spray.

  Each slightest sound is magnified,
    For drowsy quiet holds her reign;
  The burnt stick in the fireplace breaks,
  The nodding cat with start awakes,
    And then to sleep drops off again,
  Unheeding Towser at her side.

  I look far out across the lawn,
    Where huddled stand the silly sheep;
  My work lies idle at my hands,
  My thoughts fly out like scattered strands
    Of thread, and on the verge of sleep—­
  Still half awake—­I dream and yawn.

  What spirits rise before my eyes! 
    How various of kind and form! 
  Sweet memories of days long past,
  The dreams of youth that could not last,
    Each smiling calm, each raging storm,
  That swept across my early skies.

  Half seen, the bare, gaunt-fingered boughs
    Before my window sweep and sway,
  And chafe in tortures of unrest. 
  My chin sinks down upon my breast;
    I cannot work on such a day,
  But only sit and dream and drowse.

DIRGE

  Place this bunch of mignonette
    In her cold, dead hand;
  When the golden sun is set,
    Where the poplars stand,
  Bury her from sun and day,
  Lay my little love away
      From my sight.

  She was like a modest flower
    Blown in sunny June,
  Warm as sun at noon’s high hour,
    Chaster than the moon. 
  Ah, her day was brief and bright,
  Earth has lost a star of light;
      She is dead.

  Softly breathe her name to me,—­
    Ah, I loved her so. 
  Gentle let your tribute be;
    None may better know
  Her true worth than I who weep
  O’er her as she lies asleep—­
      Soft asleep.

  Lay these lilies on her breast,
    They are not more white
  Than the soul of her, at rest
    ’Neath their petals bright. 
  Chant your aves soft and low,
  Solemn be your tread and slow,—­
      She is dead.

  Lay her here beneath the grass,
    Cool and green and sweet,
  Where the gentle brook may pass
    Crooning at her feet. 
  Nature’s bards shall come and sing,
  And the fairest flowers shall spring
      Where she lies.

  Safe above the water’s swirl,
    She has crossed the bar;
  Earth has lost a precious pearl,
    Heaven has gained a star,
  That shall ever sing and shine,
  Till it quells this grief of mine
      For my love.