WHO GAVE ME A GROUP OF WEEDS Yet sometimes, let me dream, the con AND GRASSES, AFTER A DRAWING OF DÜRER. scious wood A momentary vision may renew TRUE as the sun's own work, but more of him who counts it treasure that he refined, knew, Summer's triumphant poem of the rose: Enough for me to watch the wavering chase, Like wind o'er grass, of moods across her face, Fairest in motion, fairer in repose. Steeped in her sunshine, let me, while I Wit, goodness, grace, swift flash from | As that wherewith the heart of Roland grave to gay, brake, Old. All these are good, but better far is she. Far heard across the New World and the The happy pencil at its labor sings, Beneath the false discovering the true, The owl, belated in his plundering, WITH A COPY OF AUCASSIN AND What fool it was invented light. NICOLETE. few; Because its seeds o'er Memory's desert AN EPISTLE TO GEORGE WILLIAM blown CURTIS. Dear friend and old, they say you shake | By shelves that sun them in the indul your head And wish some bitter words of mine un I hate to speak, still more what makes the need; But I must utter what the voice within Dictates, for acquiescence dumb were sin; I blurt ungrateful truths, if so they be, That none may need to say them after me. 'T were my felicity could I attain The temperate zeal that balances your brain; But nature still o'erleaps reflection's plan, And one must do his service as he can. Think you it were not pleasanter to speak Smooth words that leave unflushed the brow and cheek? To sit, well-dined, with cynic smile, un gent Past, Where Spanish castles, even, were built to last, Where saint and sage their silent vigil keep, And wrong hath ceased or sung itself to sleep. Dear were my walks, too, gathering fragrant store Of Mother Nature's simple-minded lore: I learned all weather-signs of day or night; No bird but I could name him by his flight, No distant tree but by his shape was known, Or, near at hand, by leaf or bark alone. This learning won by loving looks I hived As sweeter lcre than all from books derived. I know the charm of hillside, field, and wood, Of lake and stream, and the sky's downy brood, Of roads sequestered rimmed with sallow sod, But friends with hardhack, aster, goldenrod, Or succory keeping summer long its trust Of heaven-blue fleckless from the eddying dust: These were my earliest friends, and latest too, Still unestranged, whatever fate may do. For years I had these treasures, knew their worth, Estate most real man can have on earth. I sank too deep in this soft-stuffed repose That hears but rumors of earth's wrongs and woes; Too well these Capuas could my muscles waste, Not void of toils, but toils of choice and taste; These still had kept me could I but have quelled The Puritan drop that in my veins rebelled. But there were times when silent were my books As jailers are, and gave me sullen looks, When verses palled, and even the woodland path, By innocent contrast, fed my heart with wrath, |