days;
But its low brown walls are laid and softly lined,
  And oh, full happily now my rest I take,
And care not I when it lightly rocks in the wind,
  For the branch above though it bends will never break;
And close by my side rings out the voice of my mate—my lover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright—and
      Summer will last forever.

Now the stream that divides us from perfect bliss
  Seems floating past so narrow—so narrow,
You could span its wave such a morn as this,
  With a moment winged like a golden arrow,
And the sweet wind waves all the tasselled broom,
  And over the hill does it loitering come,
Oh, the perfect light—oh, the perfect bloom,
  And the silence is thrilled with the murmurous hum
Of the bees a-kissing the red-lipped clover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright—and
      Summer will last forever.

When the West is a golden glow, and lower
  The sun is sinking large and round,
Like a golden goblet spilling o'er,
  Glittering drops that drip to the ground—
Then I spread my lustrous wings and cleave the air
  Sailing high with a motion calm and slow,
Far down the green earth lies like a picture fair,
  Then with rapid wing I sink in the shining glow;
A-chasing the glinting, gleaming drops; oh, a diver
Am I in a clear and golden sea, and Summer will last forever.

The leaves with a pleasant rustling sound are stirred
  Of a night, and the stars are calm and bright;
And I know, although I am only a little bird,
  One large serious star is watching me all the night,
For when the dewy leaves are waved by the breeze,
  I see it forever smiling down on me.
So I cover my head with my wing, and sleep in peace,
  As blessed as ever a little bird can be;
And the silver moonlight falls over land and sea and river,
And the nights are cool, and the nights are still, and
      Summer will last forever.

I think you would journey many and many a day,
  Ere you so contented and blest a bird would see;
Not all the wealth of the world could lure my love away,
  For my brown little nest is all the world to me;
And care not I if brighter bowers there are
  Lying close to the sun—where tall palms pierce the sky;
Oh, you would journey a weary way and a far,
  Ere you would behold a bird so blest as I;
And singing close to my side is my mate—my kin—my lover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright—and
      Summer will last forever.

* * * * *

AUTUMN.

Yes! yes! I dare say it is so,
And you should be pitied, but how could I know,
Watching alone by the moon-lit bay;
But that is past for many a day,
For the woman that loved, died years ago,
                   Years ago.

She had loving eyes, with a wistful look
In their depths that day, and I know you took
Her face in your hands and read it o'er,
As if you should never see it more;
You were right, for she died long years ago,
                   Years ago.

Had I trusted you—for trust, you know
Will keep love's fire forever aglow;
Then what would have mattered storm or sun,
But the watching—the waiting, all is done;
For the woman that loved, died years ago,
                   Years ago.

Yes; I think you are constant, true and good,
I am tired, and would love you if I could;
I am tired, oh, friend, tired out; and yet,
Can we make sweet morn of the dim sunset?
The woman that loved, died years ago,
                   Years ago.

Not a pulse of my heart is stirred by you,
No; even your tears cannot move me now;
So leave me alone, what is said is said,
What boots your prayers, she is dead! is dead!
The woman you loved, long years ago,
                    Years ago.

AUTUMN SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

The sky is dark and the air is full of snow,
  I go to a warmer clime afar and away;
Though my heart is so tired I do not care for it now,
  But here in my empty nest I cannot stay;
                 Thus cried the swallow,
I go from the falling snow, oh, follow me—oh, follow.

One night my mate came home with a broken wing,
  So he died; and my brood went long ago;
And I am alone, and I have no heart to sing,
  With no one to hear my song, and I must go;
                 Thus cried the swallow,
Away from dust and decay, oh, follow me—oh, follow.

But I think I will never find so warm and safe a nest,
  As my home, in the pleasant days gone by, gone by,
I think I shall never fold my wings in such happy rest,
  Never again—oh, never again till I die;
                 Thus cried the swallow,
But I go from the falling snow, oh, follow me—oh, follow.

THE COQUETTE.

How can I be to blame?
  Is it my fault I am fair?
I did not fashion my features,
  Or brush the gold in my hair;
Because my eyes are so blue and bright,
  Must I never look up from the ground,
But put out with my eyelids' snow their light,
  Lest some foolish heart they should wound?

How can I be in fault?
  I am sure where hearts are so few,
It is difficult to discern
  The diamonds of paste from the true;
I thought him like all the rest,
  Skilful in playing his part;
As careful at cards or at chess,
  As winning a woman's heart.

I am sure it is nothing wrong,
  Nothing to think of—and yet
I know I lured him with glance and song,
  Into my shining net;
Provokingly cold at first he seemed,
  Like crystal to smiles and sighs,
But at last he felt the magic that gleamed
  In my dreamy violet eyes.

And I led him on and on,
  Farther, in truth, than I strove,
For he frightened me with the earnestness
  And violence of his love;
These calm-eyed men deceive—
  Had I known the man had a heart,
I would have paused, I would, I believe,
  Have acted a different part.

In his royal indignation
  He uttered some wholesome truth—
He almost roused the emotion
  That died in my innocent youth;
Emotion that lived when life was new,
  Ere that man my pathway crossed,
Who played me a game untrue,
  When I staked all my love, and lost.

Oh for a saintly beauty,
  What efforts my soul did make;
I thought all goodness and purity
  Were possible for his sake;
The world seemed born anew, my life
  Such holy meaning wore,
I fancy so fair and fond a dream
  Never fell into ruins before.

He toyed with my fresh affection
  As he breathed the country air,
To refresh him after a season
  Of fashion, and falsehood, and glare;
Had he not slain my tenderness,
  Had my life been more sweet,
I might have known nobler happiness
  Than to humble men to my feet.