"No longer vest thy verse in rose-leaves frail:--
Let the heart's voice loud through thy paan wail!"

* * * * *

Lo, at my feet the wind of autumn throws
A hundred turbulent blossoms of the rose,

Full of the voices of the sea and grove
And air, and full of hidden, murmured love,

And warm with passion through the roof-tree sent;
Dew-drenched with tears;--all in one wild gush spent!



MUSIC OF GROWTH.

Music is in all growing things;
And underneath the silky wings
Of smallest insects there is stirred
A pulse of air that must be heard.
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings.

If poet from the vibrant strings
Of his poor heart a measure flings,
Laugh not, that he no trumpet blows:
It may be that Heaven hears and knows
His language of low listenings.