A poor man met me and begged for bread—
Lira, la, la!
"Brother, take all the loaf," I said,
I shall but go with lighter cheer—
Lira, la, la!
And O within my flowering heart
(Sing, sweet nightingale!) is my Dear.
A thief I met on the lonely way—
Lira, la, la!
He took my gold; I cried to him, "Stay!
And take my pocket and make an end."
Lira, la, la!
And O within my flowering heart
(Sing, soft nightingale!) is my Friend.
Now on the plain I have met with death—
Lira, la, la!
My bread is gone, my gold, my breath.
But O this heart is not afraid—
Lira, la, la!
For O within this lonely heart
(Sing, sad nightingale!) is my Maid.
THE RAINY SUMMER
There's much afoot in heaven and earth this year;
The winds hunt up the sun, hunt up the moon,
Trouble the dubious dawn, hasten the drear
Height of a threatening noon.
No breath of boughs, no breath of leaves, of fronds,
May linger or grow warm; the trees are loud;
The forest, rooted, tosses in her bonds,
And strains against the cloud.
No scents may pause within the garden-fold;
The rifled flowers are cold as ocean-shells;
Bees, humming in the storm, carry their cold
Wild honey to cold cells.
THE ROARING FROST
A flock of winds came winging from the North,
Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth
With a resounding call:—
Where will they close their wings and cease their cries—
Between what warming seas and conquering skies—
And fold, and fall?