Point and upbear in our last trembling flight.




Song.

Red gleams the mountain ridge,
Slow the stream creeps
Under the old bent bridge,
And labor sleeps.

There are no restless birds,
No leaves that stir,
Dusk her gray mantle girds,
Night's harbinger.

The storm-soul's change and start
Pause, lull, and cease;
In my unquiet heart
Is born a peace.




Loneliness.

Dear, I am lonely, for the bay is still
As any hill-girt lake; the long brown beach
Lies bare and wet. As far as eye can reach