For oh, but the world is fair, is fair, And oh, but the world is sweet; I will out in the old of the blossoming mould, And sit at the Master's feet.

And the love my heart would speak, I will fold in the lily's rim, That the lips of the blossom more pure and meek May offer it up to Him.

Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush, O skylark, sing in the blue; Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear, And my soul shall sing with you.

--_Ina Coolbrith._

THE STARS AND THE FLOWERS.[16]

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers so blue and golden Stars that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars that they beheld.

Wondrous truths and manifold as wondrous, G.o.d hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of His love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the selfsame universal Being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining; Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes blossoming at night.

These in flowers and men are more than seeming, Workings are they of the selfsame powers, Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars to tell us Spring is born: Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the center of his blazoned shield.

Not alone in meadows and green alleys On the mountaintop and by the brink Of sequestered pool in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of birds or beasts alone, But in old cathedrals, high and h.o.a.ry, On the tombs of heroes carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.

In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings; Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

--_Longfellow_

[16] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

MEADOW-LARKS.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, happy that I am!

(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!) Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm, O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue, That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain's crest!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew?

The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?

Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!

Ah! he who lives the n.o.blest life finds life the n.o.blest gain, The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!

Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss, For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!

--_Ina Coolbrith._

THE ARROW AND THE SONG.

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

--_Longfellow._

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGa.s.sIZ.[17]

It was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee."

"Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the ma.n.u.scripts of G.o.d."

And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvelous tale.

So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, "Hark!

For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!"

--_Longfellow._

[17] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.