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