12.

THE CLOUD

I am a cloud in the heaven's height,
The stars are lit for my delight,
Tireless and changeful, swift and free,
I cast my shadow on hill and sea-

But why do the pines on the mountain's crest
Call to me always, "Rest, rest"?

I throw my mantle over the moon

And I blind the sun on his throne at noon,
Nothing can tame me, nothing can bind,
I am a child of the heartless wind-

But oh, the pines on the mountain's crest
Whispering always, "Rest, rest."

Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856- ) was born in Baltimore County, Maryland. She taught for many years at Western High School, Baltimore. In 1921 she retired and is still writing, having published in 1927 a new volume of verse. She is a sincere artist and careful craftsman, untouched by modernism in her output.

SUNRISE

The east is yellow as a daffodil.

Three steeples-three stark swarthy arms-are thrust
Up from the town. The gnarlèd poplars thrill
Down the long street in some keen salty gust-
Straight from the sea and all the sailing ships
Turn white, black, white again, with noises sweet
And swift. Back to the night the last star slips.
High up the air is motionless, a sheet

Of light. The east grows yellower apace,
And trembles: then, once more, and suddenly,
The salt wind blows, and in that moment's space
Flame roofs, and poplar-tops, and steeples three;
From out the mist that wraps the river-ways,
The little boats, like torches, start ablaze.

FOG

The great ghosts of the town
Up and down,

Each a gray, filmy thing,

Go by.

Sudden a brief, wet sky!

A file of poplars vague with Spring.

Drips the old garden there'

See, its torn edge about,
Scarlet, remote,

Tulips flare

The length of one thin note!—

And are put out.

13. Katharine Lee Bates (1859- ) was born in Massachusetts. She graduated from Wellesley College, where she has taught since 1885. She has written a song on America-perhaps the best of our national anthems. It has been set to music by several composers.

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL
O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!

God shed His grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet,

Whose stern, impassioned stress
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness!

America! America!

God mend thine every flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved

In liberating strife,

Who more than self their country loved,
And mercy more than life!

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

14. Henry van Dyke. (For biographical note, see page 400.)

AMERICA FOR ME

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,

To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings,

But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.

So it's home again, and home again, America for me!
My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be,
In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome;

But when it comes to living, there is no place like Home.

I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled;
I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled;
But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day
In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way!

I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack;

The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back, But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me!
I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling

sea

To the blessed land of Room Enough beyond the ocean

bars,

Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

WORK

Let me but do my work from day to day,
In field or forest, at the desk or loom,
In roaring market-place or tranquil room;
Let me but find it in my heart to say,
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,
"This is my work; my blessing, not my doom;
Of all who live, I am the one by whom
This work can best be done in the right way."

Then shall I see it not too great, nor small,
To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;
Then shall I cheerful greet the laboring hours,

And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall
At eventide, to play and love and rest,
Because I know for me my work is best.

15. Clinton Scollard (1860

) was born at Clinton, New York. He was educated at Harvard and at Hamilton College, where he has taught for many years. He is a prolific writer, and has published many volumes of verse. His poems are musical and altogether charming.

A HILL IN PICARDY

There is a little hill in Picardy

That, in the bygone days, was fair to see
With silvery leaves of the slim poplar tree.
Ah, lovely little hill in Picardy!

White were the boles as are a maiden's hands;
And there were willow-withes and hazel-wands,
And ferns, with frail antennæ of their fronds.
Ah, lovely little hill in Picardy!

And there the purple violets made spring
A dream of loveliness; many a tender thing-
Vervain and vetch-added its glamouring,
Ah, lovely little hill in Picardy!

And there was morn and vesper song of birds
Whereto the wind joined with its joyous words;
And there was kindly shade for the sleek herds,
Ah, lovely little hill in Picardy!

But now-but now-what is there left to see
Save desolation? Riven earth and tree
And lines of crosses tell their tale. Ah, me,
This lonely little hill in Picardy!