'Pears ter me strange

Now, when I thinks on 'em, dose ole years: Mars' George, sometimes de b'ilin' tears Fills up my eyes,

'Count o' de mizery now, an' de change De sun dims, Marster,

Ter an ole man, when his one boy dies.

Did you say "How?"

Out in de dug-out, one moonshine night,
Fishin' wid your baby brother - he
Wid de curls o' yaller, like streaks o' light,
An' de dancin' big blue eyes. Dead, now -
Kree died for him;

An' yearnin' for Kree,
De Lord tuk him, Marster:
De green grass kivers 'em bofe f'om sight.

The blood in Pickett's heart

Was of a ruddier hue

Than the reddest bloom whose petals part
To welcome heaven's dew.

I think the fairest flowers that blow
Should greet the life-stream shed
In that historic long ago

By this historic dead.

The immemorial years

Such valor never knew

As poured a flood of crimson blood
At Gettysburg with you.

Living and dead, in faith the same,
I see you on that height,
Crowned with the rosy wreath of fame
Won in the fatal fight.

Without him let the rapt earth dree
What doom its twin rotations earn;
Whither or whence, are naught to me,
Save as his being they concern.

Comets may crash, or inner fire
Burn out and leave an arid crust,

Or earth may lose Cohesion's tire,
And melt to planetary dust.

It's naught to me if he's not here,
I'll not lament, nor even sigh;
I shall not feel the jar, nor fear,
For I am he, and he is I.

LYDIA

BREAK forth, break forth, O Sudbury town,
And bid your yards be gay
Up all your gusty streets and down,
For Lydia comes to-day!

I hear it on the wharves below;
And if I buy or sell,

The good folk as they churchward go
Have only this to tell.

My mother, just for love of her,
Unlocks her carved drawers;
And sprigs of withered lavender
Drop down upon the floors.

For Lydia's bed must have the sheet

Spun out of linen sheer, And Lydia's room be passing sweet With odors of last year.

The violet flags are out once more
In lanes salt with the sea;

The thorn-bush at Saint Martin's door
Grows white for such as she.

So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow,
For Lydia comes to-day;
Of all the words that I do know,
I have but this to say.

ANNE

SUDBURY MEEting-house, 1653 HER eyes be like the violets,

Ablow in Sudbury lane;

When she doth smile, her face is sweet As blossoms after rain;

With grief I think of my gray hairs, And wish me young again.

In comes she through the dark old door
Upon this Sabbath day;

And she doth bring the tender wind
That sings in bush and tree;
And hints of all the apple boughs
That kissed her by the way.

Our parson stands up straight and tall,
For our dear souls to pray,
And of the place where sinners go
Some grewsome things doth say:
Now, she is highest Heaven to me;
So Hell is far away.

Most stiff and still the good folk sit
To hear the sermon through;
But if our God be such a God,

And if these things be true,
Why did He make her then so fair,
And both her eyes so blue?

A flickering light, the sun creeps in,
And finds her sitting there;
And touches soft her lilac gown,
And soft her yellow hair;

I look across to that old pew,
And have both praise and prayer.

Oh, violets in Sudbury lane,

Amid the grasses green,

This maid who stirs ye with her feet
Is far more fair, I ween!

I wonder how my forty years
Look by her sweet sixteen!

DAFFODILS

FATHERED by March, the daffodils are

here.

First, all the air grew keen with yester

day,