WHAT fragrant-footed comer
Is stepping o’er my head?
Behold, my queen! the Summer!
Who deems her warriors dead.
’T IS the blithest, bonniest weather for a bird to flirt a feather,
For a bird to trill and warble, all his wee red breast a-swell.
NOT ours to clamor shame on you,
Nor fling a bitter blame on you,
Nor brand a cruel name on you,
That evil name of treason,
'MOTHER! Mother!' he called as he fell
In the horror there
Of a bursting shell
That strewed red flesh on the air.
ONE summer day, gleaming in memory,
We drove, my Joy and I,
Through fragrant hawthorn lanes
Gold-fringed with wisps of rye
WHEN the Millennium comes
Only the kings will fight,
While the princes beat the drums,
And the queens in aprons white,
THE best of life, what is it but white moments?
Those swift illuminations when we see
The flying shadows on the fragrant meadows
THE night was loud with tumult; trees were torn
Sheer from their roots by the delirious wind;
In some waste dreamland wandered all forlorn
BLUE as blossom of the myrtle
Smiled the steadfast eyes of Olaf
On the host of ships that harried
White wing, white wing,
Lily of the air,
What word dost bring,
On whose errand fare?