Mother Earth
Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed, Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves the glory of the field, Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient,
The Hermit Thrush
O wonderful! How liquid clear The molten gold of that ethereal tone, Floating and falling through the wood alone, A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear! 0 holy, holy, holy! Hyaline, Long light,
The Vain King
In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest, A jewelled collar shone upon his breast, A giant ruby glittered in his crown – Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town. In
The Black Birds
I Once, only once, I saw it clear, That Eden every human heart has dreamed A hundred times, but always far away! Ah, well do I remember how it seemed, Through the still atmosphere
America
I love thine inland seas, Thy groves of giant trees, Thy rolling plains; Thy rivers’ mighty sweep, Thy mystic canyons deep, Thy mountains wild and steep, All thy domains; Thy silver Eastern strands, Thy
Love in a Look
Let me but feel thy look’s embrace, Transparent, pure, and warm, And I’ll not ask to touch thy face, Or fold thee with mine arm. For in thine eyes a girl doth rise, Arrayed
Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee
Joyful, joyful we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love, Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, hail Thee as the sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness, drive the dark of
Dulcis Memoria
Long, long ago I heard a little song, (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) So lowly, slowly wound the tune along, That far into my heart it found the way: A melody consoling
Doors of Daring
The mountains that enfold the vale With walls of granite, steep and high, Invite the fearless foot to scale Their stairway toward the sky. The restless, deep, dividing sea That flows and foams from
They Who Tread the Path of Labor
They who tread the path of labor follow where My feet have trod; They who work without complaining, do the holy will of God; Nevermore thou needest seek me; I am with thee everywhere;
Jeanne d'Arc Returns
1914-1916 What hast thou done, O womanhood of France, Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife, What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife, To prove the pride of thine inheritance In this fair land
An American in Europe
‘Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings, But now I
Hide and Seek
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, All the flocks of fleecy clouds have wandered past the hill; Through the noonday silence, down the woods of June, Hark, a little hunter’s
War-Music
Break off! Dance no more! Danger is at the door. Music is in arms. To signal war’s alarms. Hark, a sudden trumpet calling Over the hill! Why are you calling, trumpet, calling? What is
Nepenthe
Yes, it was like you to forget, And cancel in the welcome of your smile My deep arrears of debt, And with the putting forth of both your hands To sweep away the bars