Move ever to the waters' rhythmic I love the mock-bird's, and brown

flow,

Blent with the humming of the wild

wood bee,

And the winds' under thrills of mystery; The twinkling "ground-stars," full of modest cheer,

Each her cerulean cup

up,

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To catch whate'er the kindly heavens may give

thrush's lay,

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In humble supplication lifting To find remoter meanings; the far tone
Of ante-natal music faintly blown
From out the misted realms of memory;
The pathos and the passion of a dream;
Or broken fugues of a diviner tongue
That e'er hath chanted, since our earth
was young,

Of flooded sunshine, or celestial dew;
And even when, self-poised in airy
grace,

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Their phantom lightness stirs Through glistening shadows of a secret place

The silvery-tinted gossamers;
For thus hath Nature taught amid her
All-

The complex miracles of land and

It rose in dazzling spirals overhead,
Whence, to wild sweetness wed,
Poured marvellous melodies, silvery
trill on trill;
The very leaves grew still

On the charmed trees to harken; while,

Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy

No immemorial stain, or awful rent

(The mark of tempest spent),

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No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine

o'ergrown,

No distant, flickering cone,

IN HARBOR

I think it is over, over,

I think it is over at last,
Voices of foeman and lover,

The sweet and the bitter have passed:

But speaks of him, and seems to bring Life, like a tempest of ocean

once more

Hath outblown its ultimate blast; There's but a faint sobbing sea-ward While the calm of the tide deepens leeward,

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And behold! like the welcoming quiver
Of heart-pulses throbbed thro' the
river,

Those lights in the harbor at last,
The heavenly harbor at last!

I feel it is over, over!

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