Over my head are the firs for rafter;
The crows blow south, and my heart goes after;
I kiss my hands to the world with laughter—
Is it Aidenn or mystical Ind?
Oh, the whirl of the fields in the windy weather!
How the barley breaks and blows together!
Oh, glad is the free bird afloat on the heather—
Oh, the whole world is glad of the wind!
The New-Comers
Two swallows—each preening a long glossy feather;
Now they gossip and dart through the silvery weather;
Oh, praise to the Highest—two lovers together—
Free, free in the fathomless world of air.
No fate to oppose and no fortune to sunder;
Blue sky overhead—green sky breaking under;
And their home on the cliff in the midst of the wonder,
Hung high beyond fear on the gray granite stair.
Music
It is the last appeal to man—
Voice crying since the world began;
The cry of the Ideal—cry
To aspirations that would die.
The last appeal! in it is heard
The pathos of the final word.
Voice tender and heroical—
Imperious voice that knoweth well
To wreck the reasonings of years,
To strengthen rebel hearts with tears.
Fay Song
My life is a dream—a dream
In the moon’s cool beam;
Some day I shall wake and desire
A touch of the infinite fire.
But now ’tis enough that I be
In the light of the sea;
Enough that I climb with the cloud
When the winds of the morning are loud;
Enough that I fade with the stars
When the door of the East unbars.