Path Flower, and Other Verses

All rights reserved
MCMXIV LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

The author thanks the editors of Scribner's Magazine, The Century, The Atlantic Monthly, and M'Clure's for permission to reprint the greater part of the verse included in this volume.

A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood, A lark o'er Golder's lane, As I the April pathway trod Bound west for Willesden.
At foot each tiny blade grew big And taller stood to hear, And every leaf on every twig Was like a little ear.
As I too paused, and both ways tried To catch the rippling rain,— So still, a hare kept at my side His tussock of disdain,—
Behind me close I heard a step, A soft pit-pat surprise, And looking round my eyes fell deep Into sweet other eyes;
The eyes like wells, where sun lies too, So clear and trustful brown, Without a bubble warning you That here's a place to drown.
How many miles? Her broken shoes Had told of more than one. She answered like a dreaming Muse, I came from Islington.
So long a tramp? Two gentle nods, Then seemed to lift a wing, And words fell soft as willow-buds, I came to find the Spring.