nt your reign.

Then hover by this garden bed,
With all your wilful power, behold,
Just breaking from the leafy mould,
My little primrose lift its head!

THE SPRING AFAR.

Far from the empire of my present days,
Where I perforce remain,
The wild, fresh airs of Spring blow to and fro,
Piping out Winter's reign.

I know the rosy wind-flowers spread like clouds
Above the leafy mould,
And pollard willows over shallow pools
Stretch out their rods of gold.

I hear the waters in the mossy swamps
Start on their ocean quest,
Gliding through meadows, murmuring in woods,
Till reaching final rest.

Fixed in my thoughts is Spring, so long remote,
Though Spring cannot endow
As Summer can, or yield sweet Autumn's peace:
'T is that my heart needs now;

Or hope--maybe that Spring and Hope are one.
Therefore I should not ask
For leave from this my place: _both_ may be near,
Behind my daily mask.

WHY?

Why did I go where roses grew,
And meadow larks which skyward flew
From grasses sparkling in the dew,
The yellow sunshine pouring through?
What was there for me to find?
Were they to learn my froward mind?
From far across vast summer seas,
Rifling green marshes, bending trees,
Driving cloud-shadows down the air,
Keen breezes smote me here and there,
Keen breezes crying, _Why, why, why_?
And nothing had I to reply!
Beings with neither soul nor sense,
Convicting me with their pretence;
Beings of change,--but what am I,--
Once more repeating, _Why, why, why_?

AUGUST.

Read by the wayside, read by the brook,
That this is the passion of the year;
Look at the fields, look at the woods,
Look upon me, and--draw near!

Just as these days are, so is my heart;
Lilies are flaming, berries are ripe;
Alders blow sweet, acorns are full--
And the bobolink's young ones pipe!

Ponder the river, ponder the sky,
Hazy and gray, hazy and blue;
Study the trees wed to the wind--
I promise you I'll be as true!
Yes, true as August--as the birds' song,
The sweet fern's scent, the weedy, blue shore,
The shine of vines, smilax, and grape--
What can you ask for more?

OCTOBER.

Falling leaves and falling men!
When the snows of winter fall,
And the winds of winter blow,
Will be woven Nature's pall.

Let us, then, forsake ou