healed old Europe's woes;
Older than bowers of Lille and Louvain
Grew by the Rhine and the towns of Spain
From the dark little Rose.

Leagues in the sunlight never shall fail
While the broad, round ocean flows;
Though never a fleet goes up Kinsale,
See, all the world is within the pale
Of the dark little Rose.

THE MONK MAELANFAID

Maelanfaid saw a tiny bird
A-grieving on the ground,
And O, the sad lament he heard,
That sorrow's self might sound:
He could not read a note or word
The song of grief inwound.

Maelanfaid went within his cell
To keep a fast and pray,
To listen to a voice would tell
The mystery away:
What was the red long pain befell
The bird of grief all day?

"Maelanfaid," airy voices call,
"MacOcha Molv is dead,
Who killed no creature great or small,
Who helped all life instead:
Now griefs of bird and blossom fall
Around his funeral bed."

THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS

We will go adventuring, will you come adventuring,
Hail, to all who sail with us the seven pleasant seas:
All the shores with lily bells, all the flutes of woodland dells
Are calling like a legend upon a fragrant breeze.

Throw away the haughty cares, children here are millionaires,
Laughter take for baggage and give your laugh a song;
We must sail the seas of grass, round the isles of clover pass,
And delve in leagues of shadowland, when clouds come along.

Caves are walled with treasure trove, rich as any south-sea cove,
Bullion of the meadow where the gold sun flows;

Round the reefs of mignonette, up the waves of violet,
Fragrant go our sails and spars with attar of the rose.

On, gay adventurers, bravely ride the billowy furze,
Golden foil and dewy pearls are swaying to a tune:
Quaff the brew of red raspberry through the vine veils gossamery.
Till we turn when night comes down alleys of the moon.

Yea, with laughter in our sails and our hearts a book of tales,
Down the silver roadways, a homeward hymn we say:--
Praise the Lord ye great and small, flower and weed majestical,
For pleasant seas that God gave adventurers today.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

(For Osceola and Pocahontas)

Was it a hundred years ago,
Or was it but yesterday,
When we found the roads that grow
Blossom and song of May?