I know a stream
Than which no lovelier flows.
Its banks a-gleam
With yarrow and wild rose,
Singing it goes
And shining through my dream.
Its waters glide
Beneath the basking noon,
A magic tide
That keeps perpetual June.
There the light sleeps
Unstirred by any storm;
The wild mouse creeps
Through tall weeds hushed and warm;
And the shy snipe,
Alighting unafraid;
With sudden pipe
Awakes the dreaming shade.
So long ago!
Still, still my memory hears
Its silver flow
Across the sundering years,—
Its roses glow,
Ah, through what longing tears!
THE SUMMONS
Deeps of the wind-torn west,
Flaming and desolate,
Upsprings my soul from his rest
With your banners at the gate.
'Neath this o'ermastering sky
How could the heart lie still,
Or the sluggish will
Content in the old chains lie,
When over the lonely hill
Your torn wild scarlets cry?
Up, Soul, and out
Into the deeps alone,
To the long peal and the shout
Of those trumpets blown and blown.