Bells for John Whiteside’s Daughter
by John Ransom Crowe (1888-1974)

There was such speed in her little body,
And such lightness in her footfall,
It is no wonder her brown study
Astonishes us all.

Her wars were bruited in our high window.
We looked among orchard trees and beyond
Where she took arms against her shadow,
Or harried unto the pond

The lazy geese, like a snow cloud
Dripping their snow on the green grass,
Tricking and stopping, sleepy and proud,
Who cried in goose, Alas,

For the tireless heart within the little
Lady with rod that made them rise
From their noon apple-dreams and scuttle
Goose-fashion under the skies!

But now go the bells, and we are ready,
In one house we are sternly stopped
To say we are vexed at her brown study,
Lying so primly propped.

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Trees
by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
because today is Arbor Day

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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The Breadth and Beauty of the Spacious Night
by Philip Bourke Marston (1850-1887)

The breadth and beauty of the spacious night
      Brimmed with white moonlight, swept by winds that blew
      The flying sea-spray up to where we two
Sat all alone, made one in Love’s delight, —
The sanctity of sunsets palely bright;
      Autumnal woods, seen ‘neath meek skies of blue;
      Old cities that God’s silent peace stole through, —
These of our love were very sound and sight.

The strain of labor ; the bewildering din
      Of thundering wheels ; the bells’ discordant chime;
      The sacredness of art; the spell of rhyme, —
These, too, with our dear love were woven in.
      That so, when parted, all things might recall
      The sacred love that had its part in all.

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“ And when I am entombèd in my place”
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

And when I am entombèd in my place,
Be it remembered of a single man,
He never, though he dearly loved his race,
For fear of human eyes swerved from his plan.

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Frühlingsglaube
by Ludwig Uhland (1787-1862)

Die linden Lüfte sind erwacht,
Sie säuseln und weben Tag und Nacht,
Sie schaffen an allen Enden.
O frischer Duft, o neuer Klang!
Nun armes Herze, sey nicht bang!
Nun muß sich Alles, Alles wenden.

Die Welt wird schöner mit jedem Tag,
Man weiß nicht, was noch werden mag,
Das Blühen will nicht enden.
Es blüht das fernste, tiefste Tal.
Nun armes Herz, vergiß der Qual,
Nun muß sich Alles, Alles wenden.

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The Song of the Mad Prince
by Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

Who said, “Peacock Pie”?
      The old King to the sparrow:
Who said, “Crops are ripe”?
      Rust to the harrow:
Who said, “Where sleeps she now?
      Where rests she now her head,
Bathed in eve’s loveliness”?—
      That’s what I said.

Who said, “Ay, mum’s the word”?
      Sexton to willow:
Who said, “Green dusk for dreams,
      Moss for a pillow”?
Who said, “All Time’s delight
      Hath she for narrow bed;
Life’s troubled bubble broken”?—
      That’s what I said.

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Locksley Hall
by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early morn:
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn.

‘Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wander’d, nourishing a youth sublime
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.—

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s breast;
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove;
In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

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