Lizette Woodworth Reese Poems

Along the pastoral ways I go,
To get the healing of the trees,
The ghostly news the hedges know;
To hive me honey like the bees,
...

A long the thousand roads of France,
Now there, and here, swift as a glance,
A cloud, a mist blown down the sky,
Good Joan of Arc goes riding by.
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Oh, the littles that remain!
Scent of mint out in the lane;
Flare of window; sound of bees; —
These, but these.
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An apple orchard smells like wine;
A succory flower is blue;
Until Grief touched these eyes of mine,
Such things I never knew.
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It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
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Bathsheba came out to the sun,
Out to our wallèd cherry-trees;
The tears adown her cheek did run,
Bathsheba standing in the sun,
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Glad that I live am I;
That the sky is blue;
Glad for the country lanes,
And the fall of dew.
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The old house stands deserted, gray,
With sharpened gables high in air,
And deep-set lattices, all gay
With massive arch and framework rare;
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A serviceable thing
Is fennel, mint, or balm,
Kept in the thrifty calm
Of hollows, in the spring;
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Battles nor songs can from oblivion save,
But Fame upon a white deed loves to build:
From out that cup of water Sidney gave,
Not one drop has been spilled.
...