TO
G. F. M.
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED IN MEMORY
OF MANY DAYS.
_What though I dreamed of mountain heights,
Of peaks, the barriers of the world,
Around whose tops the Northern Lights
And tempests are unfurled._
_Mine are the footpaths leading through
Life's lowly fields and woods,--with rifts,
Above, of heaven's Eden blue,--
By which the violet lifts_
_Its shy appeal; and holding up
Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,
Along the hillside, cup on cup,
Blooms bright the celandine._
_Where soft upon each flowering stock
The butterfly spreads damask wings;
And under grassy loam and rock
The cottage cricket sings._
_Where overhead eve blooms with fire,
In which the new moon bends her bow,
And, arrow-like, one white star by her
Burns through the afterglow._
_I care not, so the sesame
I find; the magic flower there,
Whose touch unseals each mystery
In water, earth and air._
_That in the oak tree lets me hear
Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words;
And to my mind makes crystal clear
The melodies of birds._
_Why should I care, who live aloof
Beyond the din of life and dust,
While dreams still share my humble roof,
And love makes sweet my crust?_
