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It ’s little that I care
About my darling’s place
In books of beauty rare,
Or heraldries of race:
For when she steps in view,
It matters not to me
What her sweet type may be,
Of woman, old or new.
I can’t explain the art;
But I know her for my own,
Because her lightest tone
Wakes an echo in my heart.

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,
Reading mournful mood of mine
In your looks, that give no sign
Of a spirit dark and cheerless:
You possess the heavenly power
That rejoices in the hour,

Glad, contented, free, and fearless, —-
Lifts a sunny face to heaven
When a sunny day is given ;
Makes a summer of its own,
Blooming late and all alone.

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
Separate joys were lost to sight.
That was summer! Now November
Sets the perfect flower apart ;

Gives each blossom of the heart
Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,—
Blooming late and all alone.

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,
With a leisurely tide that bears my bark
Out of the visionless woods of dark,

Into a world where day-beams crown
Valley and hill with light from far,
Clearer than sun or moon or star.
Luminous, wonderful, weird, oh, mark
How the radiance pulses everywhere,
Through the lucent sky and the shadowless

air!

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.

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