But nature always clamors for
What she hath lent to life a while,
And though we borrow more and more,
And all her powers do beguile,
Yet comes the hour on land or sea,
She asks for all with usury.
The boy lifts up his hands and dives,
A pleasant plunge that has no dread,
But I recall some precious lives,
Which thus were reckoned ’mongst the dead,
And in my heart, at end of day,
A prayer for the lads I say.
Fifth Evening
Song of the West-wind o’er the waves,
Song of the billows, as the lave
The shoreline with a mystic moan,
Song of the rushes in the shallow,
Song of the aspen tree and sallow,—
Ever as the undertone.
Song of cicadas and the cricket
From ragged grasses and the thicket,
Song of the whirring dragon-fly,
That goes to sea, but for to die,
Song of the warblers, flitting nigh,
Song of the loon’s weird, distant cry.
Song of a horn on yonder hill,
That echoes in the far away,
The tone is soft as of a rill,—
“The end of a perfect day”—
As sinks the sun, and I depart,
With all this music in my heart.
TWILIGHT
A dull, pink evening sky,
A white ridge shadow-streaked below,
The tall, dark trees near by,—
In the deep snow.
Two horses, one is white,
As white as is the new-fall’n snow,
The other black as darkest night,—
Along the highway go.
One, emblem of the parting day,
The other, of approaching night,
And o’er the hill the rosy ray
Of this one hour’s delight.