ON A LAKE
Sweet in the rushes
The reed-singers make
A music that hushes
The life of the lake;
The leaves are dumb,
And the tides are still,
And no calls come
From the flocks on the hill.
Forgotten now
Are nightingales,
And on his bough
The linnet fails,—
Midway the mere
My mirrored boat
Shall rest and hear
A slenderer note.
Though, heart, you measure
But one proud rhyme,
You build a treasure
Confounding time—
Sweet in the rushes
The reed-singers make
A music that hushes
The life of the lake.
HARVEST MOON
“Hush!” was my whisper
At the stair-top
When the waggoners were down below
Home from the barley-crop.
Through the high window
Looked the harvest moon,
While the waggoners sang
A harvest tune,—
“Hush!” was my whisper when
Marjory stept
Down from her attic-room,
A true-love-adept.
“Fill a can, fill a can,”
Waggoners of heart were they,
“Harvest-home, harvest-home,
Barleycorn is home to-day.” ...
“Marjory, hush now—
Harvest—you hear?”—
Red was the moon’s rose
On the full year,
The cobwebs shook, so well
Did the waggoners sing—
“Hush!”—there was beauty at
That harvesting.