III.
Then in the autumn, by the waterside,
Leaf-huddled; or along the weed-grown walks,
He dirges low the flowers that have died,
Or with their ghosts holds solitary talks.
Lover of warmth, all day above the click
And crunching of the sorghum-press, through thick
Sweet steam of juice; all night when, white as chalk,
The hunter's-moon hangs o'er the rustling rick,
Within the barn 'mid munching cow and steer,—
Soft as a memory the heart holds dear,—
We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
IV.
Kinsman and cousin of the Faëry Race,
All winter long he sets his sober mirth,—
That brings good-luck to many a fire-place,—
To folk-lore song and story of the hearth.
Between the back-log's bluster and the slim
High twittering of the kettle,—sounds that hymn
Home-comforts,—when, outside, the starless Earth
Is icicled in every laden limb,—
Defying frost and all the sad and sear,—
Like love that dies not and is always near,—
We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
VOICES.
When blood-root blooms and trillium flowers
Unclasp their stars to sun and rain,
My heart strikes hands with winds and showers
And wanders in the woods again.
O urging impulse, born of spring,
That makes glad April of my soul,
No bird, however wild of wing,
Is more impatient of control.
Impetuous of pulse it beats
Within my blood and bears me hence;
Above the housetops and the streets
I hear its happy eloquence.