WHEN sunshine met the wave,
Then love was born;
Then Venus rose to save
A world forlorn.
Wake ! wake !
Out of the snow and the mist,
Would you not be in Tryon
Now that the spring is here,
When mocking-birds are praising
The fresh, the blossomy year?
He loved her and he was untrue—
Untrue he was, let loved her still;
For out of nether darkness drew
The wind comes riding down from heaven.
Ho! wind of heaven, what do you bring?
Cool for the dawn, dew for the even,
And every sweetest thing.
GOOD-BY: nay, do not grieve that it is over—
The perfect hour;
That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover,
Flits from the flower.
The forest was a shrine for her,
A temple richly dressed;
And worshippers the tall trees were,
Each to his prayer addressed.
The Fisk Street turbine power station in Chicago
The invisible wheels go softly round and round—
Light is the tread of brazen-footed Power.
The sky is gray,
With flecks of blue
The clouds rush over.
You are a painter—listen—
I'll paint you a picture too!
Of the long white lights that glisten
Through Michigan Avenue;