r sing
The Goddess of the Year,
The Spring: the gracious Spring.

YOUTH

I once might hear the fairies sing
Upon the feathery grass a-swing,
Or in the orchard's blossoming:
Their melody so fine and clear,
One had to bend his ear to hear,
Or else the music well might pass
For zephyrs whispering in the grass.

I once might see the fairies dance
A-circle in their meadow-haunts,
Soft-tapered by the new-moon's glance:
Their airy feet in crystal shoon
Made twinklings neath the silver moon.
Such witchery, but that 't was seen,
Might well have been the dew-drops' sheen.

I've wandered far yond summer seas,
Where Music dwells mid harmonies
That well the Seraphim might please;
But never more I catch, ah me!
The fairies' silvery melody--
Their crystal twinkling on the moonlit lea.

AMERICA: GREETING

I have journeyed the spacious world over,
And here to thy sapphire wide gate,
America, I, thy True Lover
Return now, exalted, elate,
As an heir who returns to recover
His forefathers' lofty estate.

I 've seen visions of castle and palace
Up-soaring to sun-flooded skies,
Where men have drunk deep of Death's chalice,
In infinite soul-agonies--
Where Tyranny glutted her malice
And battened on Liberty's cries.

Where splendor of palace and tower
Cried up unto God with men's blood;
Where th' emblems of Tyranny's Power
Imperial and brazen have stood,
With faggot and sword to devour,
And the rack scowling hard by God's Rood.

And now at thy fair, open portal,
I stand as I stood in my Youth,
Amazed at the vision immortal
Of naked and unashamed Truth:
The Truth that the Fathers have taught all
Their children: their birth-right in sooth.

I greet thee: thy purple, large reaches,--
From the snow-mantled, spire-pointed pine,
To thy golden, long, low-lying beaches,
Awash with thy tropical brine,
And thine infinite bosom that teaches
How God hath made Freedom divine.

God dowered thee fair mid the Oceans:
He bulwarked thee strong with the seas,
That Man might preserve here the motions
He gave Freedom's bold processes:
That Man in his loftiest devotions
Might serve Freedom's altars in Peace.

How crude then and rude then soever
Thy struggles to lift from the sod,
Thy Freedom is strong to dissever
The Shackles, the Yoke, and the Rod;
Thy Freedom is Mighty forever,
For