Through it the world-soul sends
Its heart’s creating pulse that beats and sings
The music of maternity whence springs
All life; and shaping earthly ends,—
From the deep sources of the heavens drawn,—
Planting its ways with beauty, on it wends,
On and for ever on.
THE OLD SWING
Under the boughs of spring
She swung in the old rope-swing.
Her cheeks, with their happy blood,
Glowed pink as the apple-bud.
Her eyes, with their deep delight,
Shone glad as the stars of night.
Her curls, with their romp and fun,
Tossed hoiden to wind and sun.
Her lips, with their laughter shrill,
Rippled like some wild rill.
Under the boughs of spring
She swung in the old rope-swing.