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When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And, infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers ;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure.
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

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Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen ;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,

Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue
And brier-roses, dwelt among ;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher !
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff and take the wheat;
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep :
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

Ralph Waldo Emerson,


FROM gold to gray

Our mild, sweet day
Of Indian summer fades too soon;

But tenderly

Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

In its pale fire

The village spire
Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance ;

The painted walls

Whereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance.

John Greenleaf Whittier.


THE twilight is sad and cloudy,

The wind blows loud and free, And like the wings of seabirds

Flash the white caps of the sea.

But in the fisherman's cottage

There shines a ruddier light, And a little face at the window

Peers out into the night.


Close, close it is pressed to the window,

As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness

To see some form arise.


And a woman's waving shadow

Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling,

Now bowing and bending low.

What tale do the roaring ocean

And the night-wind, bleak and wild,

As they beat at the crazy casement,

Tell to that little child ?

And why do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the color from her cheek?

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


THE cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun ;

The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising ;
There are forty feeding like one.

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill ;
The plough-boy is whooping, anon, anon!

There's joy on the mountains,
There's life in the fountains ;
Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing,
The rain is over and gone.

William Wordsworth.


Gloucester, August, 1720.
THE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,

And the white caps flecked the sea ;
“ An' I would to God,” the skipper groaned,

“I had not my boy with me!”

Snug in the stern-sheets, little John

Laughed as the scud swept by ;
But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan

As he watched the wicked sky.

“ Would he were at his mother's side !"

And the skipper's eyes were dim. “Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,

What would become of him !

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“For me, my muscles are as steel,

For me let hap what may ;
I might make shift upon the keel

Until the break o' day.

“ But he, he is so weak and small,

So young, scarce learned to stand, O pitying Father of us all,

I trust him in thy hand !

“For thou, who markest from on high

A sparrow's fall, each one !
Surely, O Lord, thou 'lt have an eye

On Alec Yeaton's n!”

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