Oh the breeze is blowin' balmy

An the sun is in a haze;

There's a cloud jest givin' coolness

To the laziest of days.

There are crowds upon the lakeside,

But the fish refuse to bite,

So I'll wait and go a-fishin'

When the wind gets right.

Now my boat tugs at her anchor,

Eager now to kiss the spray,

While the little waves are callin'

Drowsy sailor come away,

There's a harbor for the happy,

And its sheen is just in sight,

But I won't set sail to get there,

Till the wind gets right.

That's my trouble, too, I reckon,

I've been waitin' all too long,

Tho' the days were always

Still the wind is always wrong.

An' when Gabriel blows his trumpet,

In the day o' in the night,

I will still be found waitin',

Till the wind gets right.

Summah is de lovin' time—

Do' keer what you say.

Night is allus peart an' prime,

Bettah dan de day.

Do de day is sweet an' good,

Birds a-singin' fine,

Pines a-smellin' in de wood,—

But de night is mine.

Rivah whisperin' "howdy do,"

Ez it pass you by—

Moon a-lookin' down at you,

Winkin' on de sly.

Frogs a-croakin' f'om de pon',

Singin' bass dey fill,

An' you listen way beyon'

Ol' man whippo'will.

Hush up, honey, tek my han'

Mek yo' footsteps light;

Somep'n' kin' o' hol's de lan'

On a summah night.

Somep'n' dat you nevah sees

An' you nevah hyeahs,

But you feels it in de breeze,

Somep'n' nigh to teahs.

Somep'n' nigh to teahs? dat's so;

But hit's nigh to smiles.

An' you feels it ez you go

Down de shinin' miles.

Tek my han', my little dove;

Hush an' come erway—

Summah is de time fu' love,

Night-time beats de day!

Adown the west a golden glow

Sinks burning in the sea,

And all the dreams of long ago

Come flooding back to me.

The past has writ a story strange

Upon my aching heart,

But time has wrought a subtle change,

My wounds have ceased to smart.

No more the quick delight of youth,

No more the sudden pain,

I look no more for trust or truth

Where greed may compass gain.

What, was it I who bared my heart

Through unrelenting years,

And knew the sting of misery's dart,

The tang of sorrow's tears?

'Tis better now, I do not weep,

I do not laugh nor care;

My soul and spirit half asleep

Drift aimless everywhere.

We float upon a sluggish stream,

We ride no rapids mad,

While life is all a tempered dream

And every joy half sad.

Silence, and whirling worlds afar

Through all encircling skies.

What floods come o'er the spirit's bar,

What wondrous thoughts arise.

The earth, a mantle falls away,

And, winged, we leave the sod;

Where shines in its eternal sway

The majesty of God.

Since I left the city's heat

For this sylvan, cool retreat,

High upon the hill-side here

Where the air is clean and clear,

I have lost the urban ways.

Mine are calm and tranquil days,

Sloping lawns of green are mine,

Clustered treasures of the vine;

Long forgotten plants I know,

Where the best wild berries grow,

Where the greens and grasses sprout,

When the elders blossom out.

Now I am grown weather-wise

With the lore of winds and skies.

Mine the song whose soft refrain

Is the sigh of summer rain.

Seek you where the woods are cool,

Would you know the shady pool

Where, throughout the lazy day,

Speckled beauties drowse or play?

Would you find in rest or peace

Sorrow's permanent release?—

Leave the city, grim and gray,

Come with me, ah, come away.

Do you fear the winter chill,

Deeps of snow upon the hill?

'Tis a mantle, kind and warm,

Shielding tender shoots from harm.

Do you dread the ice-clad streams,—

They are mirrors for your dreams.

Here's a rouse, when summer's past

To the raging winter's blast.

Let him roar and let him rout,

We are armored for the bout.

How the logs are glowing, see!

Who sings louder, they or he?

Could the city be more gay?

Burn your bridges! Come away!

W'en us fellers stomp around, makin' lots o' noise,

Gramma says, "There's certain times come to little boys

W'en they need a shingle or the soft side of a plank;"

She says "we're a-itchin' for a right good spank."

An' she says, "Now thes you wait,

It's a-comin'—soon or late,

W'en a feller's itchin' fer a spank."

W'en a feller's out o' school, you know how he feels,

Gramma says we wriggle 'roun' like a lot o' eels.

W'y it's like a man that's thes home from out o' jail.

What's the use o' scoldin' if we pull Tray's tail?

Gramma says, tho', "Thes you wait,

It's a-comin'—soon or late,

You'se the boys that's itchin' to be spanked."

Cats is funny creatures an' I like to make 'em yowl,

Gramma alwus looks at me with a awful scowl

An' she says, "Young gentlemen, mamma should be thanked

Ef you'd get your knickerbockers right well spanked."

An' she says, "Now thes you wait,

It's a-comin'—soon or late,"

When a feller's itchin' to be spanked.

Ef you fin' the days is gettin' awful hot in school

An' you know a swimmin' place where it's nice and cool,

Er you know a cat-fish hole brimmin' full o' fish,

Whose a-goin' to set around school and wish?

'Tain't no use to hide your bait,

It's a-comin,—soon or late,

Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.

Ol' folks know most ever'thing 'bout the world, I guess,

Gramma does, we wish she knowed thes a little less,

But I alwus kind o' think it 'ud be as well

Ef they wouldn't alwus have to up an' tell;

We kids wish 'at they'd thes wait,

It's a-comin'—soon or late,

Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.

Along by the river of ruin

They dally—the thoughtless ones,

They dance and they dream

By the side of the stream,

As long as the river runs.

It seems all so pleasant and cheery—

No thought of the morrow is theirs,

And their faces are bright

With the sun of delight,

And they dream of no night-brooding cares.

The women wear garlanded tresses,

The men have rings on their hands,

And they sing in their glee,

For they think they are free—

They that know not the treacherous sands.

Ah, but this be a venturesome journey,

Forever those sands are ashift,

And a step to one side

Means a grasp of the tide,

And the current is fearful and swift.

For once in the river of ruin,

What boots it, to do or to dare,

For down we must go

In the turbulent flow,

To the desolate sea of Despair.

Your presence like a benison to me

Wakes my sick soul to dreamful ecstasy,

I fancy that some old Arabian night

Saw you my houri and my heart's delight.

And wandering forth beneath the passionate moon,

Your love-strung zither and my soul in tune,

We knew the joy, the haunting of the pain

That like a flame thrills through me now again.

To-night we sit where sweet the spice winds blow,

A wind the northland lacks and ne'er shall know,

With clasped hands and spirits all aglow

As in Arabia in the long ago.

Oh, I des received a letter f'om de sweetest little gal;

Oh, my; oh, my.

She's my lovely little sweetheart an' her name is Sal:

Oh, my; oh, my.

She writes me dat she loves me an' she loves me true,

She wonders ef I'll tell huh dat I loves huh, too;

An' my heaht's so full o' music dat I do' know what to do;

Oh, my; oh, my.

I got a man to read it an' he read it fine;

Oh, my; oh, my.

Dey ain' no use denying dat her love is mine;

Oh, my; oh, my.

But hyeah's de t'ing dat's puttin' me in such a awful plight,

I t'ink of huh at mornin' an' I dream of huh at night;

But how's I gwine to cou't huh w'en I do' know how to write?

Oh, my; oh, my.

My heaht is bubblin' ovah wid de t'ings I want to say;

Oh, my; oh, my.

An' dey's lots of folks to copy what I tell 'em fu' de pay;

Oh, my; oh, my.

But dey's t'ings dat I's a-t'inkin' dat is only fu' huh ears,

An' I couldn't lu'n to write 'em ef I took a dozen years;

So to go down daih an' tell huh is de only way, it 'pears;

Oh, my; oh, my.

I've always been a faithful man

An' tried to live for duty,

But the stringent mode of life

Has somewhat lost its beauty.

The story of the generous bread

He sent upon the waters,

Which after many days returns

To trusting sons and daughters,

Had oft impressed me, so I want

My soul influenced by it,

And bought a loaf of bread and sought

A stream where I could try it.

I cast my bread upon the waves

And fancied then to await it;

It had not floated far away

When a fish came up and ate it.

And if I want both fish and bread,

And surely both I'm wanting,

About the only way I see

Is for me to go fishing.

Little brown face full of smiles,

And a baby's guileless wiles,

Liza May, Liza May.

Eyes a-peeping thro' the fence

With an interest intense,

Liza May.

Ah, the gate is just ajar,

And the meadow is not far,

Liza May, Liza May.

And the road feels very sweet,

To your little toddling feet,

Liza May.

Ah, you roguish runaway,

What will toiling mother say,

Liza May, Liza May?

What care you who smile to greet

Everyone you chance to meet,

Liza May?

Soft the mill-race sings its song,

Just a little way along,

Liza May, Liza May.

But the song is full of guile,

Turn, ah turn, your steps the while,

Liza May.

You have caught the gleam and glow

Where the darkling waters flow,

Liza May, Liza May.

Flash of ripple, bend of bough,

Where are all the angels now?

Liza May.

Now a mother's eyes intense

Gazing o'er a shabby fence,

Liza May, Liza May.

Then a mother's anguished face

Peering all around the place,

Liza May.

Hear the agonizing call

For a mother's all in all,

Liza May, Liza May.

Hear a mother's maddened prayer

To the calm unanswering air,

Liza May.

What's become of—Liza May?

What has darkened all the day?

Liza May, Liza May.

Ask the waters dark and fleet,

If they know the smiling, sweet

Liza May.

Call her, call her as you will,

On the meadow, on the hill,

Liza May, Liza May.

Through the brush or beaten track

Echo only gives you back,

Liza May.

Ah, but you were loving—sweet,

On your little toddling feet,

Liza May, Liza May.

But through all the coming years,

Must a mother breathe with tears,

Liza May.

Oh, who is the Lord of the land of life,

When hotly goes the fray?

When, fierce we smile in the midst of strife

Then whom shall we obey?

Oh, Love is the Lord of the land of life

Who holds a monarch's sway;

He wends with wish of maid and wife,

And him you must obey.

Then who is the Lord of the land of life,

At setting of the sun?

Whose word shall sway when Peace is rife

And all the fray is done?

Then Death is the Lord of the land of life,

When your hot race is run.

Meet then his scythe and, pruning-knife

When the fray is lost or won.

Dey was oncet a awful quoil 'twixt de skillet an' de pot;

De pot was des a-bilin' an' de skillet sho' was hot.

Dey slurred each othah's colah an' dey called each othah names,

Wile de coal-oil can des gu-gled, po'in oil erpon de flames.

De pot, hit called de skillet des a flat, disfiggered t'ing,

An' de skillet 'plied dat all de pot could do was set an' sing,

An' he 'lowed dat dey was 'lusions dat he wouldn't stoop to mek

'Case he reckernize his juty, an' he had too much at steak.

Well, at dis de pot biled ovah, case his tempah gittin' highah,

An' de skillet got to sputterin', den de fat was in de fiah.

Mistah flan lay daih smokin' an' a-t'inkin' to hisse'f,

Wile de peppah-box us nudgin' of de gingah on de she'f.

Den dey all des lef hit to 'im, 'bout de trouble an' de talk;

An' howevah he decided, w'y dey bofe 'u'd walk de chalk;

But de fiah uz so 'sgusted how dey quoil an' dey shout

Dat he cooled 'em off, I reckon, w'en he puffed an' des went out.

Step wid de banjo an' glide wid de fiddle,

Dis ain' no time fu' to pottah an' piddle:

Fu' Christmas is comin', it's right on de way,

An' dey's houahs to dance 'fo' de break o' de day.

What if de win' is taihin' an' whistlin'?

Look at dat' fiah how hit's spittin' an' bristlin'!

Heat in de ashes an' heat in de cindahs,

Ol' mistah Fros' kin des look thoo de windahs.

Heat up de toddy an' pas' de wa'm glasses,

Don' stop to shivah at blowin's an' blas'es,

Keep on de kittle an' keep it a-hummin',

Eat all an' drink all, dey's lots o' a-comin'.

Look hyeah, Maria, don't open dat oven,

Want all dese people a-pushin' an' shovin'?

Res' f'om de dance? Yes, you done cotch dat odah,

Mammy done cotch it, an' law! hit nigh flo'd huh;

'Possum is monst'ous fu' mekin' folks fin' it!

Come, draw yo' cheers up, I's sho' I do' min' it.

Eat up dem critters, you men folks an' wimmens,

'Possums ain' skace w'en dey's lots o' pu'simmons.

Your spoken words are roses fine and sweet,

The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound.

How lavish nature is about your feet,

To scatter flowers and jewels both around.

Blushing the stream of petal beauty flows,

Softly the white strings trickle down and shine.

Oh! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose.

Sing me a song, for I would pearls were mine.

The rain streams down like harp-strings from the sky;

The wind, that world-old harpist sitteth by;

And ever as he sings his low refrain,

He plays upon the harp-strings of the rain.

Ah, I have changed, I do not know

Why lonely hours affect me so.

In days of yore, this were not wont,

No loneliness my soul could daunt.

For me too serious for my age,

The weighty tome of hoary sage,

Until with puzzled heart astir,

One God-giv'n night, I dreamed of her.

I loved no woman, hardly knew

More of the sex that strong men woo

Than cloistered monk within his cell;

But now the dream is lost, and hell

Holds me her captive tight and fast

Who prays and struggles for the past.

No living maid has charmed my eyes,

But now, my soul is wonder-wise.

For I have dreamed of her and seen

Her red-brown tresses' ruddy sheen,

Have known her sweetness, lip to lip,

The joy of her companionship.

When days were bleak and winds were rude,

She shared my smiling solitude,

And all the bare hills walked with me

To hearken winter's melody.

And when the spring came o'er the land

We fared together hand in hand

Beneath the linden's leafy screen

That waved above us faintly green.

In summer, by the river-side,

Our souls were kindred with the tide

That floated onward to the sea

As we swept toward Eternity.

The bird's call and the water's drone

Were all for us and us alone.

The water-fall that sang all night

Was her companion, my delight,

And e'en the squirrel, as he sped

Along the branches overhead,

Half kindly and half envious,

Would chatter at the joy of us.

'Twas but a dream, her face, her hair,

The spring-time sweet, the winter bare,

The summer when the woods we ranged,—

'Twas but a dream, but all is changed.

Yes, all is changed and all has fled,

The dream is broken, shattered, dead.

And yet, sometimes, I pray to know

How just a dream could hold me so.

Thou art the soul of a summer's day,

Thou art the breath of the rose.

But the summer is fled

And the rose is dead

Where are they gone, who knows, who knows?

Thou art the blood of my heart o' hearts,

Thou art my soul's repose,

But my heart grows numb

And my soul is dumb

Where art thou, love, who knows, who knows?

Thou art the hope of my after years—

Sun for my winter snows

But the years go by

'Neath a clouded sky.

Where shall we meet, who knows, Who knows?

And gaze far down with calm and undimmed eyes,

To where the misty smoke wreath grey and dim

Above the myriad roofs and spires rise;

Still is my heart and vacant is my breath—

This lovely view is breath and life to me,

Why I could charm the icy soul of death

With such a sight as this I stand and see.

I hear no sound of labor's din or stir,

I feel no weight of worldly cares or fears,

Sweet song of birds, of wings the soothing whirr,

These sounds alone assail my listening ears.

Unwhipt of conscience here I stand alone,

The breezes humbly kiss my garment's hem;

I am a king—the whole world is my throne,

The blue grey sky my royal diadem.

With what thou gavest me, O Master,

I have wrought.

Such chances, such abilities,

To see the end was not for my poor eyes,

Thine was the impulse, thine the forming thought.

Ah, I have wrought,

And these sad hands have right to tell their story,

It was no hard up striving after glory,

Catching and losing, gaining and failing,

Raging me back at the world's raucous railing.

Simply and humbly from stone and from wood,

Wrought I the things that to thee might seem good.

If they are little, ah God! but the cost,

Who but thou knowest the all that is lost!

If they are few, is the workmanship true?

Try them and weigh me, whate'er be my due!

The moon begins her stately ride

Across the summer sky;

The happy wavelets lash the shore,—

The tide is rising high.

Beneath some friendly blade of grass

The lazy beetle cowers;

The coffers of the air are filled

With offerings from the flowers.

And slowly buzzing o'er my head

A swallow wings her flight;

I hear the weary plowman sing

As falls the restful night.

(Lines on reading "Driftwood.")

Driftwood gathered here and there

Along the beach of time;

Now and then a chip of truth

'Mid boards and boughs of rhyme;

Driftwood gathered day by day,—

The cypress and the oak,—

Twigs that in some former time

From sturdy home trees broke.

Did this wood come floating thick

All along down "Injin Crik?"

Or did kind tides bring it thee

From the past's receding sea

Down the stream of memory?

Kiss me, Miami, thou most constant one!

I love thee more for that thou changest not.

When Winter comes with frigid blast,

Or when the blithesome Spring is past

And Summer's here with sunshine hot,

Or in sere Autumn, thou has still the pow'r

To charm alike, whate'er the hour.

Kiss me, Miami, with thy dewy lips;

Throbs fast my heart e'en as thine own breast beats.

My soul doth rise as rise thy waves,

As each on each the dark shore laves

And breaks in ripples and retreats.

There is a poem in thine every phase;

Thou still has sung through all thy days.

Tell me, Miami, how it was with thee

When years ago Tecumseh in his prime

His birch boat o'er thy waters sent,

And pitched upon thy banks his tent.

In that long-gone, poetic time,

Did some bronze bard thy flowing stream sit by

And sing thy praises, e'en as I?

Did some bronze lover 'neath this dark old tree

Whisper of love unto his Indian maid?

And didst thou list his murmurs deep,

And in thy bosom safely keep

The many raging vows they said?

Or didst thou tell to fish and frog and bird

The raptured scenes that there occurred?

But, O dear stream, what volumes thou couldst tell

To all who know thy language as I do,

Of life and love and jealous hate!

But now to tattle were too late,—

Thou who hast ever been so true.

Tell not to every passing idler here

All those sweet tales that reached thine ear.

But, silent stream, speak out and tell me this:

I say that men and things are still the same;

Were men as bold to do and dare?

Were women then as true and fair?

Did poets seek celestial flame,

The hero die to gain a laureled brow,

And women suffer, then as now?

Ring out, ye bells!

All Nature swells

With gladness at the wondrous story,—

The world was lorn,

But Christ is born

To change our sadness into glory.

Sing, earthlings, sing!

To-night a King

Hath come from heaven's high throne to bless us.

The outstretched hand

O'er all the land

Is raised in pity to caress us.

Come at his call;

Be joyful all;

Away with mourning and with sadness!

The heavenly choir

With holy fire

Their voices raise in songs of gladness.

The darkness breaks

And Dawn awakes,

Her cheeks suffused with youthful blushes.

The rocks and stones

In holy tones

Are singing sweeter than the thrushes.

Then why should we

In silence be,

When Nature lends her voice to praises;

When heaven and earth

Proclaim the truth

Of Him for whom that lone star blazes?

No, be not still,

But with a will

Strike all your harps and set them ringing;

On hill and heath

Let every breath

Throw all its power into singing!

It's hot to-day. The bees is buzzin'

Kinder don't-keer-like aroun'

An' fur off the warm air dances

O'er the parchin' roofs in town.

In the brook the cows is standin';

Childern hidin' in the hay;

Can't keep none of 'em a workin',

'Cause it's hot to-day.

It's hot to-day. The sun is blazin'

Like a great big ball o' fire;

Seems as ef instead o' settin'

It keeps mountin' higher an' higher.

I'm as triflin' as the children,

Though I blame them lots an' scold;

I keep slippin' to the spring-house,

Where the milk is rich an' cold.

The very air within its shadder

Smells o' cool an' restful things,

An' a roguish little robin

Sits above the place an' sings.

I don't mean to be a shirkin',

But I linger by the way

Longer, mebbe, than is needful,

'Cause it's hot to-day.

It's hot to-day. The horses stumble

Half asleep across the fiel's;

An' a host o' teasin' fancies

O'er my burnin' senses steals,—

Dreams o' cool rooms, curtains lowered,

An' a sofy's temptin' look;

Patter o' composin' raindrops

Or the ripple of a brook.

I strike a stump! That wakes me sudden;

Dreams all vanish into air.

Lordy! how I chew my whiskers;

'Twouldn't do fur me to swear.

But I have to be so keerful

'Bout my thoughts an' what I say;

Somethin' might slip out unheeded,

'Cause it's hot to-day.

Git up, there, Suke! you, Sal, git over!

Sakes alive! how I do sweat.

Every stitch that I've got on me,

Bet a cent, is wringin' wet.

If this keeps up, I'll lose my temper.

Gee there, Sal, you lazy brute!

Wonder who on airth this weather

Could 'a' be'n got up to suit?

You, Sam, go bring a tin o' water;

Dash it all, don't be so slow!

'Pears as ef you tuk an hour

'Tween each step to stop an' blow.

Think I want to stand a meltin'

Out here in this b'ilin' sun,

While you stop to think about it?

Lift them feet o' your'n an' run.

It ain't no use; I'm plumb fetaggled.

Come an' put this team away.

I won't plow another furrer;

It's too mortal hot to-day.

I ain't weak, nor I ain't lazy,

But I'll stand this half day's loss

'Fore I let the devil make me

Lose my patience an' git cross.

When summer time has come, and all

The world is in the magic thrall

Of perfumed airs that lull each sense

To fits of drowsy indolence;

When skies are deepest blue above,

And flow'rs aflush,—then most I love

To start, while early dews are damp,

And wend my way in woodland tramp

Where forests rustle, tree on tree,

And sing their silent songs to me;

Where pathways meet and path ways part,—

To walk with Nature heart by heart,

Till wearied out at last I lie

Where some sweet stream steals singing by

A mossy bank; where violets vie

In color with the summer sky,—

Or take my rod and line and hook,

And wander to some darkling brook,

Where all day long the willows dream,

And idly droop to kiss the stream,

And there to loll from morn till night—

Unheeding nibble, run, or bite—

Just for the joy of being there

And drinking in the summer air,

The summer sounds, and summer sights,

That set a restless mind to rights

When grief and pain and raging doubt

Of men and creeds have worn it out;

The birds' song and the water's drone,

The humming bees' low monotone,

The murmur of the passing breeze,

And all the sounds akin to these,

That make a man in summer time

Feel only fit for rest and rhyme.

Joy springs all radiant in my breast;

Though pauper poor, than king more blest,

The tide beats in my soul so strong

That happiness breaks forth in song,

And rings aloud the welkin blue

With all the songs I ever knew.

O time of rapture! time of song!

How swiftly glide thy days along

Adown the current of the years,

Above the rocks of grief and tears!

'Tis wealth enough of joy for me

In summer time to simply be.