Fleets of wool in the upper heavens
Gossamer wings unfurl;
Sailing so high they seem but sleeping
Over yon bar of pearl.
What would the great world lose, I wonder—
Would it be missed or no—
If we stayed in the opal morning,
Floating forever so?
Swung to sleep by the swaying water,
Only to dream all day—
Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting,
Scatter such dreams away!
E.R. Sill.
Memory.
My mind lets go a thousand things,
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour—
'Twas noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May—
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then, pausing here, set down its load
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
T.B. Aldrich.