Over my head the skies are blue; I have my share of the rain and dew; I bask like you in the summer sun When the long bright days pass, one by one, And calm as yours is my sweet repose Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows.
For little our loving mother cares Which the corn or the daisy bears, Which is rich with the ripening wheat, Which with the violet’s breath is sweet, Which is red with the clover bloom, Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room.
Useless under the summer sky Year after year men say I lie. Little they know what strength of mine I give to the trailing blackberry vine; Little they know how the wild grape grows, Or how my life-blood flushes the rose.
Little they think of the cups I fill For the mosses creeping under the hill; Little they think of the feast I spread For the wild wee creatures that must be fed: Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, And the creeping things that no eye may see.
Lord of the harvest, thou dost know How the summers and winters go. Never a ship sails east or west Laden with treasures at my behest, Yet my being thrills to the voice of God When I give my gold to the golden-rod.
OUT AND IN
A ship went sailing out to sea, A gallant ship and gay, When skies were bright as skies could be, One sunny morn in May. The light winds blew, The white sails flew, The pennants floated far; No stain I saw, Nor any flaw, From deck to shining spar! And from the prow, with eager eyes, Hope gazed afar—to Paradise.
A ship came laboring in from sea, One wild December night; Ah! never ship was borne to lee In sadder, sorrier plight! Rent were her sails By furious gales, No pennants floated far; Twisted and torn And all forlorn Were shuddering mast and spar! But from the prow Faith’s steady eyes Caught the near light of Paradise!
HER FLOWERS
“Nay, nay,” she whispered low, “I will not have these buds of folded snow, Nor yet the pallid bloom Of the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume, Nor lilies waxen white, To go with her into the grave’s dark night.