Oh, down the quick river our galley is going,
With a sound in the cordage, a beam on the

sail:

The wind of the canyon our loose hair is blowing, And the clouds of the morning are glad of the

gale.

Around the swift prow little billows are breaking, And flinging their foam in a glory of light; Now the shade of a rock on the river is shaking, And a wave leaps high up growing suddenly

white.

A Song at the Start

The weight of the whole world is light as a

feather,

And the peaks rise in silence and westerly flee: Oh, the world and the poet are singing together, And from the far cliff comes a sound of the sea.

My Comrade

I never build a song by night or day,
Of breaking ocean or of blowing whin,
But in some wondrous unexpected way,
Like light upon a road, my Love comes in.

And when I go at night upon the hill,

My heart is lifted on mysterious wings: My Love is there to strengthen and to still, For she can take away the dread of things.

A Lyric of the Dawn

Alone I list

In the leafy tryst;

Silent the woodlands in their starry sleep-
Silent the phantom wood in waters deep:
No footfall of a wind along the pass
Startles a harebell― stirs a blade of grass.
Yonder the wandering weeds,
Enchanted in the light,

Stand in the gusty hollows, still and white;
Yonder are plumy reeds,

Dusking the border of the clear lagoon;
Far off the silver clifts

Hang in ethereal light below the moon;
Far off the ocean lifts,

Tossing its billows in the misty beam,
And shore-lines whiten, silent as a dream:

A Lyric of the Dawn

I hark for the bird, and all the hushed hills harken:
This is the valley: here the branches darken
The silver-lighted stream.

Hark

That rapture in the leafy dark!

Who is it shouts upon the bough aswing,
Waking the upland and the valley under?
What carols, like the blazon of a king,
Fill all the dawn with wonder?

Oh, hush,

It is the thrush,

In the deep and woody glen!

Ah, thus the gladness of the gods was sung,
When the old Earth was young;

That rapture rang,

When the first morning on the mountains sprang: And now he shouts, and the world is young again! Carol, my king,

On your bough aswing!

Thou art not of these evil days

Thou art a voice of the world's lost youth:

Oh, tell me what is duty-what is truth
How to find God upon these hungry ways;
Tell of the golden prime,