Speculation


I wonder if God sits alone
Upon the highest mountain stone
To stir the clouds and drop the rain,
And then to pick it up again.

I wonder if he sends the brooks
Foaming from their distant nooks,
And, sitting there in robes of gray,
Turns rivers on at break of day.



Parade


The scarlet trumpet flowers are gay
And yet they never seem to play,
They never trumpet up the dawn
Nor blow retreat across the lawn.

But oh, to-day I heard a strain,
A happy, martial, quick refrain,
As down across the garden grass
I saw the marching flowers pass:

Gaudy phlox and flaunting rose,
Stiff and straight and on their toes,