The fields of light are clover-brimmed,
Or grassed or daisy-starred,
The fields of dark are softly dimmed,
And safely twilight-barred;
But in the gloom that fills my room
I cannot fail to mark
The grass and trees about my knees,
The flowers in the dark.
Children in the City
THOUSANDS of childish ears, rough chidden,
Never a sweet bird-note have heard,
Deep in the leafy woodland hidden
Dies, unlistened to, many a bird.
For small soiled hands in the sordid city
Blossoms open and die unbreathed;
For feet unwashed by the tears of pity
Streams around meadows of green are wreathed.
Warm, unrevelled in, still they wander,
Summer breezes out in the fields;
Scarcely noticed, the green months squander
All the wealth that the summer yields.
Ah, the pain of it! Ah, the pity!
Opulent stretch the country skies
Over solitudes, while in the city
Starving for beauty are childish eyes.
Where Pleasures Grow
WHERE pleasures grow as thick as grass,
And joys of silence, soft, profound,
Are sweeter e’en than joys of sound,
The long, long days of summer pass.
I see them sitting in the sun,
Or moving river-like between
The climbing and down-bending green,
I watch them vanish one by one,