Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

Such joy it is to hear her sing,
We fall in love with everything--
The simple things of every day
Grow lovelier than words can say.

The idle brooks that purl across
The gleaming pebbles and the moss,
We love no less than classic streams--
The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.

To hear her sing--with folded eyes,
It is, beneath Venetian skies,
To hear the gondoliers' refrain,
Or troubadours of sunny Spain.--

To hear the bulbul's voice that shook
The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh:
What wonder we in homage bring
Our hearts to her--to hear her sing!




BEING HIS MOTHER.

Being his mother--when he goes away
I would not hold him overlong, and so
Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O