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It ’s little that I care
A NOVEMBER DAISY
AFTERTHOUGHT of summer’s bloom! Late arrival at the feast,
Coming when the songs have ceased
And the merry guests departed,
Leaving but an empty room,
Silence, solitude, and gloom!
Are you lonely, heavy-hearted;
You, the last of all your kind,
N odding in the autumn wind ;
Now that all your friends are flown,
Blooming late and all alone ?
Nay, I wrong you, little flower,
Glad, contented, free, and fearless, —-
Once the daisies gold and white
Sea-like through the meadows rolled:
Once my heart could hardly hold
All its pleasures, — I remember,
In the flood of youth’s delight
Gives each blossom of the heart
THE RIVER OF DREAMS
HE river of dreams runs softly down From its hidden spring in the forest of sleep, With a measureless motion calm and deep; And my boat slips out on the current brown, In a tranquil bay where the trees incline Far over the waves, and creepers twine Far over the boughs, as if to steep Their drowsy blooms in the stream, that goes, By a secret way that no man knows, Under the branches bending, On through the shadows blending, While the body rests, and the passive soul Is drifted along to an unseen goal, And the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs smoothly down,
Into a world where day-beams crown
Over the mountains shimmering,
Up from the fountains glimmering, —
‘T is the mystical glow of the inner light, That shines in the very noon of night, Where the river of dreams runs down.