Flowers Spring Up Unsown And

Tender Pauses Speak The Overflow Of Gladness, When Words Are All Too Weak.

Lo! While We Are Gazing, In Swifter Haste Stream Down The Snows, Till The Air Is White, As, Myriads By Myriads Madly Chased, They Fling Themselves From Their Shadowy Height. The Fair, Frail Creatures Of Middle Sky, What Speed They Make, With Their Grave So Nigh; Flake After Flake, To Lie In The Dark And Silent Lake!

Flowers Spring Up Unsown And Die Ungathered.

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.

A Silence, The Brief Sabbath Of An Hour, Reigns O'er The Fields; The Laborer Sits Within His Dwelling; He Has Left His Steers Awhile, Unyoked, To Bite The Herbage, And His Dog Sleeps Stretched Beside The Door-stone In The Shade. Now The Gray Marmot, With Uplifted Paws, No More Sits Listening By His Den, But Steals Abroad, In Safety, To The Clover-field, And Crops Its Juicy-blossoms.