The Gulls
I Soft is the sky in the mist-kirtled east, Light is abroad on the sea, All of the heaven with silver is fleeced, Holding the sunrise in fee. Lo! with a flash and uplifting
To My Enemy
Let those who will of friendship sing, And to its guerdon grateful be, But I a lyric garland bring To crown thee, O, mine enemy! Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe For that
Song of the Sea-Wind
When the sun sets over the long blue wave I spring from my couch of rest, And I hurtle and boom over leagues of foam That toss in the weltering west, I pipe a
Rain on the Hill
Now on the hill The fitful wind is so still That never a wimpling mist uplifts, Nor a trembling leaf drop-laden stirs; From the ancient firs Aroma of balsam drifts, And the silent places
An Autumn Evening
Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow And wake among the
On the Bay
When the salt wave laps on the long, dim shore, And frets the reef with its windy sallies, And the dawn’s white light is threading once more The purple firs in the landward valleys,
In Port
Out of the fires of the sunset come we again to our own We have girdled the world in our sailing under many an orient star; Still to our battered canvas the scents of
By an Autumn Fire
Now at our casement the wind is shrilling, Poignant and keen And all the great boughs of the pines between It is harping a lone and hungering strain To the eldritch weeping of the
Rain Along Shore
Wan white mists upon the sea, East wind harping mournfully All the sunken reefs along, Wail and heart-break in its song, But adown the placid bay Fisher-folk keep holiday. All the deeps beyond the
You
Only a long, low-lying lane That follows to the misty sea, Across a bare and russet plain Where wild winds whistle vagrantly; I know that many a fairer path With lure of song and
A Winter Dawn
Above the marge of night a star still shines, And on the frosty hills the sombre pines Harbor an eerie wind that crooneth low Over the glimmering wastes of virgin snow. Through the pale
At Nightfall
The dark is coming o’er the world, my playmate, And the fields where poplars stand are very still, All our groves of green delight have been invaded, There are voices quite unknown upon the
The Forest Path
Oh, the charm of idle dreaming Where the dappled shadows dance, All the leafy aisles are teeming With the lure of old romance! Down into the forest dipping, Deep and deeper as we go,
Midnight in Camp
Night in the unslumbering forest! From the free, Vast pinelands by the foot of man untrod, Blows the wild wind, roaming rejoicingly This wilderness of God; And the tall firs that all day long
An April Night
The moon comes up o’er the deeps of the woods, And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills, Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds Over the pools and the whimpering