A neighbor to the grass and flowers.
A friend to all the skies,
A lovely tree that dares to romp
With every bird that flies.
A spruce, an elm, a tamarack;
Dear heaven, how can there be
A lovelier name, and how I wish
They’d given one to me.
Middle Creek, W. Va.
I HAVE a longing for a hill
A passion for small streams.
And there’s a creek that winds itself
Among my muted dreams.
A tumbling stream, you know the kind,
With water running clear,
Where birds might bathe between its songs
And pilgrims hover near.
It twines itself, love-fashion, round
A flowering tree, then worms—
And oozes in between the roots,
Of sycamores and ferns.
Petals float down and mingle with
Ribbons of grass while I
Am conscious that I am dreaming,
And writing while I sigh.
Endie
I LIKE to visit Endie’s house
She’s like a dream herself,
She has the books I know and love
Upon her reading shelf.
And when I go to her we talk
About the clouds and wind,
And if I drop from clouds to clods
Why; Endie doesn’t mind.
I like the streams, the singing ones,
But Endie likes a fall;
And if I disagee with her
She doesn’t mind at all.
Endie has a thousand things
To plant in one small space;
When I find it can’t be done
Regret is in her face.
She often says O! dare we plant,
Narcissus in a row?
But she agrees and I agree
Where hollyhocks should grow.
I only need to mention tea
And Endie’s soft eyes shine.
And then she talks; her language flows
More eloquent than mine.
Once ambition burned my breast
Endie, too, was fired.
But here is where I stop to rest
For Endie’s getting tired.