To God then I spake yet again: not Peter
instead
Would I take, nor Philip nor John, for my
friend who is dead.


_FOREST SONG_

All around I heard the whispering larches
Swinging to the low-lipped wind;
God, they piped, is lilting in our arches,
For He loveth leafen kind.

Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber,
Say confiding to the reed:
God well knoweth us, Who loves to number
Us and all our fairy seed.

Voices hummed as of a multitude
Crowding from their lowly sod;
'Twas the stricken daisies where I stood,
Crying to the daisies' God.


_THE BEE_

Away, the old monks said,
Sweet honey-fly,
From lilting overhead