In the long, bright summer, dear to bird and bee, When the woods are standing in liveries green and gay, Merry little voices sound from every tree, And they whisper secrets all the day. If we knew the language, we should hear strange things; Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, deep in private chat. "How are all your nestlings, dear? Do they use their wings? What was that sad tale about a cat?" "Where is your new cottage?" "Hush! I pray you, hush". Please speak very softly, dear, and make no noise. It is on the lowest bough of the lilac bush. And I am so dreadfully afraid of boys. "Mr. Chirry chose the spot, without consulting me; Such a very public place, and insecure for it, I can scarcely sleep at night for nervousness; but he Says I am a silly thing and doesn't mind a bit." "So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house? And a nest is under way for little Mr. Wren? Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear; quiet as a mouse. These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them." Close the downy dowagers nestle on the bough While the timorous voices soften low with dread, And we, walking underneath, little reckon their Mysteries are couching in the tree-tops overhead. Ah, the pretty whisperers! It was very well When the leaves were thick and green, awhile ago— Leaves are secret-keepers; but since the last leaf fell There is nothing hidden from the eyes below. Bared are the brown tenements, and all the world may see What Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, hid so close that day. In the place of rustling wings, cold winds rustling be, And thickly lie the icicles where once the warm brood lay. Shall we tease the birdies, when they come back in spring,— Tease and tell them we have fathomed all their secrets small, Every secret hiding-place and dear and precious, thing, Which they left behind the leaves, the red leaves, in the fall? They would only laugh at us and wink their saucy eyes, And answer, "Last year's secrets are all past and told. New years bring new happenings and fresh mysteries, You are very welcome to the stale ones of the old!"

HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN

I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time you went to bed." "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer May; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief, 'Tis such a very pleasant day We do not want to go away." So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among, "Perhaps the great Tree will forget And let us stay until the spring If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering. "Come, children all, to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air. I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm. The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. "Good-night, dear little leaves" he said; And from below each sleepy child Replied "Good-night," and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed."

BARCAROLES

I

Over the lapsing lagune all the day Urging my gondola with oar-strokes light, Always beside one shadowy waterway I pause and peer, with eager, jealous sight, Toward the Piazza where Pepita stands, Wooing the hungry pigeons from their flight. Dark the canal; but she shines like the sun, With yellow hair and dreaming, wine-brown eyes. Thick crowd the doves for food. She gives ME none. She sees and will not see. Vain are my sighs. One slow, reluctant stroke. Aha! she turns, Gestures and smiles, with coy and feigned surprise. Shifting and baffling is our Lido track, Blind and bewildering all the currents flow. Me they perplex not. In the midnight black I hold my way secure and fearless row, But ah! what chart have I to her, my Sea, Whose fair, mysterious depths I long to know? Subtle as sad mirage; true and untrue She seems, and, pressing ever on in vain, I yearn across the mocking, tempting blue. Never she draws more near, never I gain A furlong's space toward where she sits and a miles; Smiles and cares nothing for my love and pain. How shall I win her? What may strong arm do Against such gentle distance? I can say No more than this, that when she stands to woo The doves beside the shadowy waterway, And when I look and long, sometimes—she smiles Perhaps she will do more than smile one day!

Страница 15 из 18

Назад 1…14 15 16…18 Далее