Herbert Bashford

FIERCE burns our fire of driftwood; overhead
Gaunt maples lift arms against the night;
The stars are sobbing,—sorrow-shaken, white,
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A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,
He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
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Oh, to feel the fresh breeze blowing
From lone ridges yet untrod!
Oh, to see the far peak growing
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THESE lands are clothed in burning weather,
These parched lands pant for God’s cool rain;
I look away where strike together
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Can I forget that glorious autumn night,
So full of joyous pain, when you and I
Stood on the shore beneath a cloudless sky,
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LONG hours we toiled up through the solemn wood
Beneath moss-banners stretched from tree to tree;
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Of deepest blue of summer skies
Is wrought the heaven of her eyes.

Of that fine gold the autumns wear
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FROM this quaint cabin window I can see
The strange, vague line of ghostly drift-wood, though
No ray of silver moon or soft star-glow
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A BED of ashes and a half-burned brand
Now mark the spot where last night’s campfire sprung
And licked the dark with slender, scarlet tongue;
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He dwells where pine and hemlock grow,
A merry minstrel seldom seen;
The voice of Joy is his I know—
Shy poet of the Evergreen!
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Oh, woods of the west, leafy woods that I love.
Where through the long days I have heard
The prayer of the wind in the branches above,
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