MORNING
There is a brook I must hear
Before I go to sleep.
There is a birch tree I must visit
Every night of clearness.
I have to do some dreaming,
I have to listen a great deal,
Before light comes back
By a silver arrow of cloud,
And I rub my eyes and say
It must be morning on this hill!
SONG
A scarlet bird went sailing away through the wood . . .
It was only a mist of dream
That floated by.
Bare boughs of my apple-tree,
Beautiful gray arms stretched out to me,
Swaying to and fro like angels' wings . . .
It was only a mist of dream
That floated by.
SNOWFLAKE SONG
Snowflakes come in fleets
Like ships over the sea.
The moon shines down on the crusty snow:
The stars make the sky sparkle like gold-fish
In a glassy bowl.
Bluebirds are gone now,
But they left their song behind them.
The moon seems to say:
It is time for summer when the birds come back
To pick up their lonesome songs.