The Last Furrow

Disturb the dream of winter- all in vain

The grasses hurry to the graves, the flowers Toss their wild torches on their windy towers; Yet are the bleak graves lonely in the rain.

In the Storm

I huddled close against the mighty cliff. A sense of safety and of brotherhood

Broke on the heart: the shelter of a rock Is sweeter than the roofs of all the world.

Blithe Fancy lightly builds with airy hands
Or on the edges of the darkness peers,
Breathless and frightened at the Voice she hears:
Imagination (lo! the sky expands)

Travels the blue arch and Cimmerian sands,-
Homeless on earth, the pilgrim of the spheres,
The rush of light before the hurrying years,
The Voice that cries in unfamiliar lands.

Men weigh the moons that flood with eerie light The dusky vales of Saturn-wood and stream;

After Reading Shakspere

But who shall follow on the awful

sweep

Of Neptune through the dim and dreadful deep?
Onward he wanders in the unknown night,
And we are shadows moving in a dream.

The Hidden Valley

I stray with Ariel and Caliban:

I know the hill of windy pines- I know Where the jay's nest swings in the wild gorge

below:

Lightly I climb where fallen cedars span

Bright rivers-climb to a valley under ban,

Where west winds set a thousand bells ablowAn eerie valley where in the morning glow I hear the music of the pipes of Pan.

Mysterious horns blow by on the still air

A satyr steps a wood-god's dewy notes Come faintly from a vale of tossing oatsBut, ho! what white thing in the canyon crossed? Gods! I shall come on Dian unaware,

Look on her fearful beauty and be lost.