All this cupped by the towering
City skyscrapers, and outlined against
The peaceful Eden hills,
Miles to the south.
And when I wait for the big bridge to lift
For a freighter with its important tugs,
I pull out of line, off to the side,
And let the other cars go by,
And look, and look.
I never seem to get enough.

_From a Train Window_

Once, before dawn,
In the Mohawk valley,
Dots of light flashed
And floated off
Into the blackness,
Like sparks of flame
Blasted from the engine.
Then more and more,
Mile after mile,
Almost never ending--
Millions of fire-flies,
Like tiny torches,
Dancing over swamp lands
In the night air.

_Scotland_

(_The Highlands_)

Mountains,
Veiled in shifting vapors,
Mountains,
Bleak, foreboding,
Mountains,
Stark and overpowering.
Torrents,
Tumbling, crashing,
Dragging boulders
In their rushing,
Lakes,
Forlorn and lonesome
Heather
In magenta patches,
Sheep, and cattle
Black and somber,
Winding roads
Through massive passes.
Rain,
Sun,
Flowers,
Mist,
Rain,--
Loved Scotland!

_Friends_

(_At Lake Windermere, England_)

Across the lake
Lying calm and black
Under the night,
Floats the wail
Of the pipes:
And beyond, loom
Langdale Pikes, dim,
Shadowy sentinels.
Over all, the stars,
Like friends, faithful
And changeless.

_A Poem of Color_

Stretched on the ground beneath the Hawthorn,
The perfume of its blossoms mingled with falling petals, floats
down to me.
Winged things alight there on the blanket of fragrance above,--a
bunting, blue as the sky, a warbler, all gold, an Admiral, wings
banded with crimson,
Make a poem of color of the Hawthorn tree.

_Dream_

(_Stratford-on-Avon_)

One warm June evening
I sat in the churchyard
Of old Trinity. I sat there for hours
On an ancient stone, forgetting time.
The Avon, as silent as the centuries it had known,
Glided past, carrying me on with its memories.
From the lush meadow across the river came the bleating of lambs,
And from the limes floated the song of blackbirds.
All about the scent of roses hung heavy.
Then, over the roof of T