With a rush and a whir of shining wings, They hear and obey—the dainty things! Dun and purple and snowy white, Clouded gray, like the soft twilight, Straight as an arrow shot from a bow, Wheeling and circling high and low, Down they fly from the slanting roof Of the old red barn at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!
Baby Alice with wide blue eyes Watches them ever with new surprise, While she and Wag on the mat together Joy in the soft midsummer weather. Hither and thither she sees them fly, Gray and white on the azure sky, Light and shadow against the green Of the maple grove at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!
A sound, a motion, a flash of wings— They are gone—like a dream of heavenly things. The doves have flown and the porch is still, And the shadows gather on vale and hill. Then sinks the sun, and the mountain breeze Stirs in the tremulous maple-trees; While Love and Peace, as the night comes down, Brood over quiet Mendon!
A LATE ROSE
I sent a little maiden To pluck for me a rose, The sweetest and the fairest That in the garden grows— A blush-rose, proud and tender, Upon its stem so slender, Swaying in dreamy splendor Where yellow sunshine glows.
Back came the little maiden With drooping, downcast head, And slow, reluctant footsteps, And this to me she said: “I find no sweet blush-roses In all the garden closes: There are no summer roses; It must be they are dead!”
Then bent I to the maiden And touched her shining hair— Dear heart! in all the garden Was nothing half so fair! “Nay!” said I, “let the roses Die in the garden closes Whenever fate disposes, If I this rose may wear!”