style="margin-top: 3em">Here is the place where Loveliness keeps house,
Between the river and the wooded hills,
Within a valley where the Springtime spills
Her firstling wind-flowers under blossoming boughs:
Where Summer sits braiding her warm, white brows
With bramble-roses; and where Autumn fills
Her lap with asters; and old Winter frills
With crimson haw and hip his snowy blouse.
Here you may meet with Beauty. Here she sits
Gazing upon the moon, or all the day
Tuning a wood-thrush flute, remote, unseen:
Or when the storm is out, 't is she who flits
From rock to rock, a form of flying spray,
Shouting, beneath the leaves' tumultuous green.

Water Fantasy. [Fannie Stearns Davis]

O brown brook, O blithe brook, what will you say to me
If I take off my heavy shoon and wade you childishly?

    O take them off, and come to me.
    You shall not fall. Step merrily!

But, cool brook, but, quick brook, and what if I should float
White-bodied in your pleasant pool, your bubbles at my throat?

    If you are but a mortal maid,
    Then I shall make you half afraid.
    The water shall be dim and deep,
    And silver fish shall lunge and leap
    About you, coward mortal thing.
    But if you come desiring
    To win once more your naiadhood,
    How you shall laugh and find me good —
    My golden surfaces, my glooms,
    My secret grottoes' dripping rooms,
    My depths of warm wet emerald,
    My mosses floating fold on fold!
    And where I take the rocky leap
    Like wild white water shall you sweep;
    Like wild white water shall you cry,
    Trembling and turning to the sky,
    While all the thousand-fringed trees
    Glimmer and glisten through the breeze.
    I bid you come! Too long, too long,
    You have forgot my undersong.
    And this perchance you never knew:
    E'en I, the brook, have need of you.
    My naiads faded long ago, —
    My little nymphs, that to and fro
    Within my waters sunnily
    Made small white flames of tinkling glee.
    I have been lonesome, lonesome; yea,
    E'en I, the brook, until this day.
    Cast off your shoon; ah, come to me,
    And I will love you lingeringly!

O wild brook, O wise brook, I cannot come, alas!
I am but mortal as the leaves that flicker, float, and pass.
My body is not used to you; my breath is fluttering sore;
You clasp me round too icily. Ah, let me go once more!
Would God I were a naiad-thing whereon Pan's music blew;
But woe is me! you pagan brook, I cannot stay with you!

Bacchus. [Frank Dempster Sherman]

Listen to the tawny thief,
Hid beneath the waxen leaf,
Growling at his fairy host,
Bidding her with angry boast
Fill his cup with wine distilled
From the dew the dawn has spilled:
Stored away in golden casks
Is the precious draught he asks.

Who, — who makes this mimic din
In this mimic meadow inn,
Sings in such a drowsy note,
Wears a golden-belted coat;
Loiters in the dainty room
Of this tavern of perfume;
Dares to linger at the cup
Till the yellow sun is up?

Bacchus 't is, come back again
To the busy haunts of men;
Garlanded and gaily dressed,
Bands of gold about his breast;
Straying from his paradise,
Having pinions angel-wise, —
'T is the honey-bee, who goes
Reveling within a rose!

Da Leetla Boy. [Thomas Augustine Daly]

Da spreeng ees com'! but oh, da joy
 Eet ees too late!
He was so cold, my leetla boy,
 He no could wait.

I no can count how manny week,
How manny day, dat he ees seeck;
How manny night I seet an' hold
Da leetla hand dat was so cold.
He was so patience, oh, so sweet!
Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet;
An' all he evra ask ees w'en
Ees gona com' da spreeng agen.
Wan day, wan brighta sunny day,
He see, across da alleyway,
Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere
Ees raise her window for da air,
An' put outside a leetla pot
Of — w'at-you-call? — forgat-me-not.
So smalla flower, so leetla theeng!
But steell eet mak' hees hearta seeng:
"Oh, now, at las', ees com' da spreeng!
Da leetla plant ees glad for know
Da sun ees com' for mak' eet grow.
So, too, I am grow warm and strong."
So lika dat he seeng hees song.
But, Ah! da night com' down an' den
Da weenter ees sneak back agen,
An' een da alley all da night
Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white,
An' cover up da leetla pot
Of — w'at-you-call? — forgat-me-not.
All night da leetla hand I hold
Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold!

Da spreeng ees com'; but oh, da joy
 Eet ees too late!
He was so cold, my leetla boy,
 He no could wait.

Agamede's Song. [Arthur Upson]

Grow, grow, thou little tree,
His body at the roots of thee;
Since last year's loveliness in death
The living beauty nourisheth.

Bloom, bloom, thou little tree,
Thy roots around the heart of me;
Thou canst not blow too white and fair
From all the sweetness hidden there.

Die, die, thou little tree,
And be as all sweet things must be;
Deep where thy petals drift I, too,
Would rest the changing seasons through.

Why. [Bliss Carman]

For a name unknown,
Whose fame unblown
Sleeps in the hills
   For ever and aye;

For her who hears
The stir of the years
Go by on the wind
   By night and day;

And heeds no thing
Of the needs of Spring,
Of Autumn's wonder
   Or Winter's chill;

For one who sees
The great sun freeze,
As he wanders a-cold
   From hill to hill;

And all her heart
Is a woven part
Of the flurry and drift
   Of whirling snow;

For the sake of two
Sad eyes and true,
And the old, old love
   So long ago.

The Wife from Fairyland. [Richard Le Gallienne]

Her talk was all of woodland things,
 Of little lives that pass
Away in one green afternoon,
 Deep in the haunted grass;

For she had come from fairyland,
 The morning of a day
When the world that still was April
 Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes —
 'T was so she seemed to me,
A silver shadow of the woods,
 Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes,
 And all my heart was hers,
And then I led her by the hand
 Home up my marble stairs;

And all my granite and my gold
 Was hers for her green eyes,
And all my sinful heart was hers
 From sunset to sunrise;