Rifling green marshes, bending trees,
Driving cloud-shadows down the air,
Keen breezes smote me here and there,
Keen breezes crying, _Why, why, why_?
And nothing had I to reply!
Beings with neither soul nor sense,
Convicting me with their pretence;
Beings of change,--but what am I,--
Once more repeating, _Why, why, why_?




AUGUST.


Read by the wayside, read by the brook,
That this is the passion of the year;
Look at the fields, look at the woods,
Look upon me, and--draw near!

Just as these days are, so is my heart;
Lilies are flaming, berries are ripe;
Alders blow sweet, acorns are full--
And the bobolink's young ones pipe!

Ponder the river, ponder the sky,
Hazy and gray, hazy and blue;
Study the trees wed to the wind--
I promise you I'll be as true!