But one of the crowd looked up today, With pointed brows. I heard him say: "Out of the meadows and rivers and trees We fauns and many companies Of nymphs have come. And we are these, These people, each upon his way, Looking for work, working for pay— And paying all our energies To earn true love ... For, seeming gay, "Once we were sad," I heard him say.
NEIGHBORS
Neighbors are not neighborly Who close the windows tight,— Nor those who fix a peeping eye For finding things not right.
Let me have faith, is what I pray, And let my faith be strong!— But who am I, is what I say, To think my neighbor wrong?
And though my neighbor may deny That faith could be so slight, May call me wrong, yet who am I To think my neighbor right?
Perhaps we wisely by and by May learn it of each other, That he is right and so am I— And save a lot of bother.
THE HILLS OF SAN JOSÉ
I look at the long low hills of golden brown With their little wooded canyons And at the haze hanging its beauty in the air— And I am caught and held, as a ball is caught and held by a player Who leaps for it in the field. And as the heart in the breast of the player beats toward the ball, And as the heart beats in the breast of him who shouts toward the player, So my heart beats toward the hills that are playing ball with the sun, That leap to catch the sun And to throw it to other hills— Or to me!
GRIEVE NOT FOR BEAUTY