The memory of our race's Island home
Is charged with salt-sea spray and ocean foam.
THE PASSING OF SUMMER
"SUMMER is dead!"—it was the wind that spake
In the bronze mantle of the sombre pine—
"The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign;
The sere rush signals it in stream and lake;
Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake,
Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine;