



Produced by Mardi Desjardins




POEMS

by

"Josiah Allen's Wife,"
(Marietta Holley)




DEDICATION.


When I wrote many of these verses I was much younger than I am now,
and the "sweetest eyes in the world" would brighten over them,
through the reader's love for me.  I dedicate them to her memory
--the memory of
MY MOTHER.



Contents

WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?
THE BROTHERS
A RICH MAN'S REVERIE
GLORIA THE TRUE
THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER
SONGS OF THE SWALLOW
THE COQUETTE
LITTLE NELL
THE FISHER'S WIFE
THE LAND OF LONG AGO
LEMOINE
SLEEP
THE LADY MAUD
THE HAUNTED CASTLE
THE STORY OF GLADYS
FAREWELL
THE KNIGHT OF NORMANDY
SOMETIME
MOTIVES
NIGHTFALL
HIS PLACE
A DREAM OF SPRING
WAITING
A SONG FOR TWILIGHT
THE FLIGHT
COMFORT
JENNY ALLEN
THE UNSEEN CITY
THE WAGES OF SIN
ISABELLE AND I
GOOD-BY
THE SEA-CAPTAIN'S WOOING
IONE
SUMMER DAYS
THE LADY CECILE
HOME
STEPS WE CLIMB
SQUIRE PERCY'S PRIDE
ROSES OF JUNE
MAGDALENA
MY ANGEL
GRIEF
WILD OATS
AUTUMN
THE FAIREST LAND
THE MESSENGER
SLEEP
THE SONG OF THE SIREN
EIGHTEEN SIXTY-TWO
AWEARY
TOO LOW
AT LAST
TWILIGHT
THE SEWING-GIRL
HARRY THE FIRST
THE CRIMINAL'S BETROTHED
GONE BEFORE
A WOMAN'S HEART
WARNING
GENIEVE TO HER LOVER
THE WILD ROSE
OUR BIRD
THE TIME THAT IS TO BE




PREFACE.


All through my busy years of prose writing I have occasionally
jotted down idle thoughts in rhyme.  Imagining ideal scenes,
ideal characters, and then, as is the way, I suppose, with more
ambitious poets, trying to put myself inside the personalities
I have invoked, trying to feel as they would be likely to, speak
the words I fancied they would say.

The many faults of my verses I can see only too well; their merits,
if they have any, I leave with the public--which has always been
so kind to me--to discover.

And half-hopefully, half-fearfully, I send out the little craft
on the wide sea strewn with so many wrecks.  But thinking it must
be safer from adverse winds because it carries so low a sail, and
will cruise along so close to the shore and not try to sail out
in the deep waters.

And so I bid the dear little wanderer (dear to me), God-speed, and
bon voyage.

Marietta Holley.

New York, June, 1887.






WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?


It is not the lark's clear tone
Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry,
Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sounds of summer;
But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly
And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight--
These help to make the summer.

Not roses redly blown,
Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads,
Nor proud imperial <DW29>s, nor queen-cups quaint and rare--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sights of summer
But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds
And slender grasses, springing up everywhere--
These help to make the summer.

One heaven bends above;
The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest;
O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low,
Is the same love, it is all God's summer;
Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best,
So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow,
You help to make the summer.



THE BROTHERS.


High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand,
From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their vassals--ruled
        the land.
For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell,
Last of their ancient line, two brothers here alone did dwell.

The eldest was stern-visaged, but the youngest smooth and fair
Of countenance; both zealous, men who bent the knee in prayer
To God alone; loved much, read much His holy word,
And prayed above all gifts desired, that they might see
        their Lord.

For this the elder brother carved a silent cell of stone,
And in its deep and dreary depths he entered, dwelt alone,
And strove with scourgings, vigils, fasts, to purify his gaze,
And sought amidst these shadows to behold the Master's face.

And from the love of God that smiles on us from bright
        lipped flowers,
And from the smile of God that falls in sunlight's golden showers,
That thrills earth's slumbering heart so, where its warm rays fall
That it laughs out in beauty, turned he as from tempters all.

From bird-song running morn's sweet-scented chalice o'er
        with cheer,
The child's light laughter, lifting lowliest souls heaven near,
From tears and glad smiles, linked light and gloom of
        the golden day,
He counting these temptations all, austerely turned away.

And thus he lived alone, unblest, and died unblest, alone,
Save for a brother monk, who held the carved cross of stone
In his cold, rigid clasp, the while his dying eyes did wear
A look of mortal striving, mortal agony, and prayer.

Though at the very last, as his stiff fingers dropped the cross,
A gleam as from some distant city swept his face across,
The clay lips settled into calm--thus did the monk attest,
A look of one who through much peril enters into rest.

Not thus did he, the younger brother, seek the Master's face;
But in earth's lowly places did he strive his steps to trace,
Wherever want and grief besought with clamorous complaint,
There he beheld his Lord--naked, athirst, and faint.

And when his hand was wet with tears, wrung with a grateful grasp,
He lightly felt upon his palm the Elder Brother's clasp;
And when above the loathsome couch of woe and want bent he,
A low voice thrilled his soul, "So have ye done it unto Me."

Despised he not the mystic ties of blood, yet did he claim
The broader, wider brotherhood, with  every race and name;
To his own kin he kind and loyal was in truth, yet still,
His mother and his brethren were all who did God's will

All little ones were dear to him, for light from Paradise
Seemed falling on him through their pure and innocent eyes;
The very flowers that fringed cool streams, and gemmed
        the dewy sod,
To his rapt vision seemed like the visible smiles of God.

The deep's full heart that throbs unceasing against the silent
        ships,
The waves together murmuring with weird, mysterious lips
To hear their untranslated psalm, drew down his anointed ear,
And listening, lo! he heard God's voice, to Him was he so near.

The happy hum of bees to him made summer silence sweet,
Not lightly did he view the very grass beneath his feet,
It paved His presence-chamber, where he walked a happy guest,
Ah! slight the veil between, in very truth his life was blest.

And when on a still twilight passed he to the summer land,
Those whom he had befriended, weeping, clinging to his hand,
The west gleamed with a sudden glory, and from out the glow
Trembled the semblance of a crown, and rested on his brow.

And with wide, eager eyes he smiled, and stretched his hands
        abroad,
As if his dearest friend were welcoming him to his abode;
Eternal silence sealed that wondrous smile as he cried--
"Thy face! Thy face, dear Lord!" and, saying this, he died.

But legends tell that on his grave fell such a strange, pure
        light,
That wine-red roses planted thereupon would spring up white,
Holding such mystic healing in their cool snow bloom, that lain
On aching brows or sorrowful hearts, they would ease their pain.



A RICH MAN'S REVERIE.


The years go by, but they little seem
Like those within our dream;
The years that stood in such luring guise,
Beckoning us into Paradise,
To jailers turn as time goes by
Guarding that fair land, By-and-By,
Where we thought to blissfully rest,
The sound of whose forests' balmy leaves
Swaying to dream winds strangely sweet,
We heard in our bed 'neath the cottage eaves,
Whose towers we saw in the western skies
When with eager eyes and tremulous lip,
We watched the silent, silver ship
Of the crescent moon, sailing out and away
O'er the land we would reach some day, some day.

But years have flown, and our weary feet
Have never reached that Isle of the Blest;
But care we have felt, and an aching breast,
A lifelong struggle, grief, unrest,
That had no part in our boyish plans;
And yet I have gold, and houses, and lands,
And ladened vessels a white-winged fleet,
That fly at my bidding across the sea;
And hats are doffed by willing hands
As I tread the village street;
But wealth and fame are not to me
What I thought that they would be.

I turn from it all to wander back
With Memory down the dusty track
Of the years that lie between,
To the farm-house old and brown,
Shaded with poplars dusky green,
I pause at its gate, not a bearded man,
But a boy with earnest eyes.

I stand at the gate and look around
At the fresh, fair world that before me lies.
The misty mountain-top aglow
With love of the sun, and the pleasant ground
Asleep at its feet, with sunny dreams
Of milk-white flowers in its heart, and clear
The tall church-spire in the distance gleams
Pointing up to the tranquil sky's
Blue roof that seems so near.

And up from the woods the morning breeze
Comes freighted with all the rich perfume
That from myriad spicy cups distils,
Loitering along o'er the locust-trees.
Scattering down the plum-trees' bloom
In flakes of crimson snow--
Down on the gold of the daffodils
That border the path below.

And the silver thread of the rivulet
Tangled and knotted with fern and sedge.
And the mill-pond like a diamond set
In the streamlet's emerald edge;
And over the stream on the gradual hill,
Its headstones glimmering palely white,
Is the graveyard quiet and still.
I wade through its grasses rank and deep,
Past slanting marbles mossy and dim,
Carven with lines from some old hymn,
To one where my mother used to lean
On Sunday noons and weep.
That tall white shape I looked upon
With a mysterious dread,
Linking unto the senseless stone
The image of the dead--
The father I never had seen;
I remember on dark nights of storm,
When our parlor was bright and warm,
I would turn away from its glowing light,
And look far out in the churchyard dim,
And with infinite pity think of him
Shut out alone in the dismal night.

And the ruined mill by the waterfall,
I see again its crumbling wall,
And I hear the water's song.
It all comes back to me--
Its song comes back to me,
Floating out like a spirit's call
The drowsy air along;
Blending forever with my name
Wonderful prophecies, dreamy talk,
Of future paths when I should walk
Crowned with manhood, and honor, and fame.

I shut my eyes and the rich perfume
Of the tropical lily fills the room
From its censer of frosted snow;
But it seems to float to me through the night
From those apple-blossoms red and white
That starred the orchard's fragrant gloom;
Those old boughs hanging low,
Where my sister's swing swayed to and fro
Through the scented aisles of the air;
While her merry voice and her laugh rung out
Like a bird's, to answer my brother's shout,
As he shook the boughs o'er her curly head,
Till the blossoms fell in a rosy rain
On her neck and her shining hair.
Oh, little Belle!
Oh, little sister, I loved so well;
It seems to me almost as if she died
In that lost time so gay and fair,
And was buried in childhood's sunny plain;
And she who walks the street to-day,
Or in gilded carriage sweeps through the town
Staring her humbler sisters down,
With her jewels gleaming like lucent flame,
Proud of her grandeur and fine array,
Is only a stranger, who bears her name.

And the little boy who played with me,
Hunting birds'-nests in sheltered nooks,
Trudging at nightfall after the cows,
Exploring the barn-loft, fording the brooks,
Ending, in school-time, puzzled brows
Over the same small lesson books;
Who knelt by my side in the twilight dim,
Praying "the Lord our souls to keep,"
Then on the same pillow fell asleep,
Hushed by our mother's evening hymn;
Whose heart and mine kept such perfect time,
Such loving cadence, such tender rhyme,
Blent in child grief, and perfected in glee--
We meet on the street and we clasp the hand,
And our names on charitable papers stand
Side by side, and we go and bow
Our two gray heads with prayer and vow,
In the same grand church, and hasty word
Of anger, has never our bosoms stirred.
Yet a whole wide world is between us now;
How broad and deep does the gulf appear
Between the hearts that were so near!

I have pleasure grounds and mansions grand,
Low-voiced servants come at my call,
From Senate my name sounds over the land
In "ayes" and "nays" so solemnly read;
They call me "Honorable," "General," and all,
But to-night I am only Charley again,
I am Charley, and want to lay my head
On my mother's heart and rest,
With her soft hand pressed upon my brow
Curing its weary pain.
But never, nevermore will it be,
For mould and marble rises now
Between my head and that loving breast;
And death has a cruel power to part--
Forever gone and lost to me
That true and tender heart.

Oh, mother, I've never found love like thine,
Never have eyes looked into mine
With such proud love, such perfect trust.
Never have hands been so true and kind,
To lead me into the path of right--
Hands so gentle, and soft, and white,
That on my head like a blessing lay,
And led me a child and guided my youth;
To-night 'tis a dreary thought, in truth,
That those gentle hands are dust.
That I may be blamed, and you not be sad,
That I may be praised, and you not be glad;
'Tis a dreary thought to your boy to-night,
That over your sweet smile, over your brow,
The clay-cold turf is pressing now,
That never again as the twilight falls
You will welcome your boy to the old brown walls
Of the homestead far away.

The homestead is ruined--gone to decay,
But we read of a house not made with hands,
Whose firm foundation forever stands;
And there is a twilight soft and sweet.
Will she not stand with outstretched hands
My homesick eyes to meet--
To welcome her boy as in days before,
To home, and to rest, forevermore?

But the years come and the years go,
And they lay on her grave as they silently pass,
Red summer buds and wreaths of snow,
And springing and fading grass.
And far away in an English town,
In the secluded, tranquil shade
Of an old Cathedral quaint and brown,
Another grave is made--
A small grave, yet so high
It shadowed all the world to me,
And darkened earth and sky.
But only for a time; it passed,
The unreasoning agony,
Like a cloud that drops its rain;
And light shone into our hearts at last.
And patience born of pain.
And now like a breath of healing balm
The sweet thought comes to me,
That my child has reached the Isle of Calm,
Over the silent sea--
That my pure little Blanche is safe in truth,
Safe in immortal beauty and youth.

When she left us in the twilight gloom,
When she left her empty nest,
And the aching hearts below;
Full well, full well I know,
What tender-eyed angel bent
Down for my brown-eyed little bird,
From the shining battlement.
I know with what fond caressing,
And loving smile and word,
And look of tender blessing,
She took her to her breast,
And led her into some quiet room,
In the mansions of the blest.
Oh, mother, beloved, oh, child so dear,
Not by a wish, would I lure you here.

My son is a bright, brave boy, with a grace
Of beauty caught from his mother's face,
And his mother and he in truth are dear,
Full tenderly, and fond, and near
My heart is bound to my wife and child;
But the summer of life is not its May,
And dreams and hopes that our youth beguiled,
Are but pallid forms of clay.

There's the boy's first love and passionate dream,
A face like a morning star, a gleam
Of hair the hue of a robin's wing--
Brown hair aglow with a golden sheen,
And eyes the sweetest that ever were seen.

Mary, we have been parted long,
You were proud, and we both were wrong,
But 'tis over and past, no living gleam
Can come again to the dear, dead dream.
It is dead, so let it lie,
But nothing, nothing can ever be
Like that old dream to you or to me.

I think we shall know, shall know at last,
All that was strange in all the past,
Shall one day know, and shall haply see
That the sorrows and ills, that with tears and sighs,
We vainly endeavored to flee,
Were angels who, veiled in sorrow's guise
Came to us only to bless.
Maybe we shall kneel and kiss their feet,
With grateful tears, when we shall meet
Their unveiled faces, pure and sweet,
Their eyes' deep tenderness.
We shall know, perchance, had these angels come
Like mendicants unto a kingly gate
When we sat in joy's royal state,
We had barred them from our home.
But when in our doorway one appears
Clothed in the purple of sorrow's power,
He will enter in, no prayers or tears
Avail us in that hour.
So what we call our pains and losses
We may not always count aright,
The rough bars of our heavy crosses
May change to living light.



GLORIA THE TRUE.


Gayly a knight set forth against the foe,
For a fair face had shone on him in dreams;
A voice had stirred the silence of his sleep,
"Go win the battle, and I will be thine."

So, for the love of those appealing eyes,
Led by low accents of fair Gloria's voice,
He wound the bugle down his castle's steep,
And gayly rode to battle in the morn.

And none were braver in the tented field,
Like lightning heralding the doomful bolt;
The enemy beheld his snowy plume,
And death-lights flashed along his glancing spear.

But in the lonesome watches of the night,
An angel came and warned him with clear voice,
Against high God his rash right arm was raised,
Was rashly raised against the true, the right.

He strove to drown the angel voice with song
And merry laughter with his princely peers;
But still the angel bade him with clear voice,
"Go join the ranks you rashly have opposed."

"Oh, Angel!" cried he, "they are few and weak,
They may not stand before the press of knights;"
But still the angel bade him with clear voice,
"Go help the weak against the mighty wrong."

At last the words sunk deep within his heart,
With god-like courage cried he out at last,
"Oh, Gloria, beautiful, I can lose thee,
Lose life and thee, to battle for the right."

And when he joined the brave and stalwart ranks,
Like Saul amid his brethren he stood,
Braver and seemlier than all his peers,
And nobly did he battle for the right.

Gentlest unto the weak, and in the fray,
So dauntless, none--no fear of man had he;
He wrought dismay in Error's blackened ranks
So nobly did he battle for the right.

But at the last he lay on a lost field;
Couched on a broken spear, he pallid lay;
With dying lips he murmured Gloria's name,
"The field is lost, and thou art lost to me."

When lo! she stood beside him, pure and fair,
With tender eyes that blessed him as he lay;
And lo! she knelt and clasped his dying hands,
And murmured, "I am thine, am thine at last."

With wondering eyes, he moaned, "All--all is lost,
And I am dying."  "Ah, not so," she cried,
"Nothing is lost to him who dare be true;
Who gives his life shall find it evermore."

"Methought I saw the spears beat down like grain,
And the ranks reel before the press of knights;
The level ground ran gory with our wounds;
Methought the field was lost, and then I fell."

"Be calm," she cried, "the right is never lost,
Though spear, and shield, and cross may shattered be,
Out of their dust shall spring avenging blades
That yet shall rid us of some giant wrong.

"And all the blood that falls in righteous cause,
Each crimson drop shall nourish snowy flowers
And quicken golden grain, bright sheaves of good,
That under happier skies shall yet be reaped.

"When right opposes wrong, shall evil win?
Nay, never--but the year of God is long,
And you are weary, rest ye now in peace,
For so He giveth His beloved sleep."

He smiled, and murmured low, "I am content,"
With blissful tears that hid the battle's loss;
So, held to her true heart he closed his eyes,
In quietest rest that ever he had known.



THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER.


The spare-room windows wide were raised,
  And you could look that summer day
On pastures green, and sunny hills,
  And low rills wandering away.
Near by, the square front yard was sweet
  With rose and caraway.

Upon a couch drawn near the light,
  The Deacon's only daughter lay,
Bending upon the distant hills
  Her eyes of dark and thoughtful gray;
The blue veins on her forehead shone
 'Twas wasted so away.

She moved, and from her slender hand
  Fell off her mother's wedding-ring;
She smiled into her father's face--
  "So drops from me each earthly thing;
My hands are free to hold the flowers
  Of the eternal spring."

She had ever walked in quiet ways,
  Not over beds of flowery ease,
But Sundays in the village choir
  She sweetly sang of "ways of peace,"
Of "ways of peace and pleasantness,"
  She trod such paths as these.

No sweeter voice in all the choir
  Praised God in innocence and truth,
The Deacon in his straight-backed pew
  Had dreams of her he lost in youth,
And thought of fair-faced Hebrew maids--
  Of Rachel, and of Ruth.

But she had faded, day by day,
  Growing more mild, and pure, and sweet,
As nearer to her ear there came
  A distant sea's mysterious beat,
Till now this summer afternoon,
  Its waters touched her feet.

Upon the painted porch without
  Two women stood, and whispered low,
They thought "she'd go out with the day,"
  They said, "the Deacon's wife went so."
And then they gently pitied him--
  "It was a dreadful blow."

"But she was good, she was prepared,
  She would be better off than here,"
And then they thought "'twas strange that he,
  Her father, had not shed a tear,"
And then they talked of news, and all
  The promise of the year.

Her father sat beside the bed,
  Holding her cold hands tenderly,
And to the everlasting hills
  He mutely turned his eyes away:
"My God, my Shelter, and my Rock,
  Oh shadow me to-day!"

He knew not when she crossed the stream,
  And passed into the land unseen,
So gently did she go from him
  Into its pastures still and green;
Into the land of pure delight,
  And Jordan rolled between.

Then knelt he down beside his dead,
  His white locks lit with sunset's flame:
"My God! oh leave me not alone--
  But blessed be Thy holy name."
The golden gates were lifted up
  The King of Glory came.



SONGS OF THE SWALLOW.


SPRING.

The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
  In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
  Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
  And this was the song--the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown
        winged band,
  Clear it arose, "Oh, follow me--come and follow--and follow."

A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
  As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden-gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
  Were whispering to him, "Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
Before the bloom of the rose is the tender green of the leaf;
  Not rash is he who wisely followeth patient Nature's ways,
The lily-bud of love should be swathed in a silken sheaf,
  Unfolding at will to summer bloom in the warm and perfect days."

So silently sailed the early sun, through clouds of fleecy white;
  So stood we in dreamy silence, enwrapped in a tender spell;
But the pulses of soft Spring air were quickened to fresh delight,
  For I read in his eye the story sweet, he longed, yet feared
        to tell;
It spoke from his heart to mine, and needed no word from his mouth,
  And high o'er our heads rang out the happy song of the swallow;
It cried to the sunshine and beauty and bloom of the South,
  Exultingly carolling clear, "Oh, follow me--oh, follow."


SPRING SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

         Oh, the days are growing longer;
So rang the jubilant song of the swallow;
  I come a-bringing beauty into the land,
The sky of the West grows warm and yellow,
  Oh, gladness comes with my light-winged band,
         And the days are growing longer.

         Oh, the days are growing longer,
The wavy gleam of fluttering wings,
  Touching the silent earth so lightly,
Will wake all the sleeping, beautiful things,
  The world will glow so brightly--brightly;
         And the days are growing longer.

         Oh, the days are growing longer,
All the rivulets dumb will laugh, and run
  Over the meadows with dancing feet;
Following the silvery plough of the sun,
  Will be furrows filled with wild flowers sweet:
         And the days are growing longer.

         Oh, the days are growing longer;
Over whispering streams will rushes lean,
  To answer the waves' soft murmurous call;
The lily will bend from its watch-tower green,
  To list to the lark's low madrigal,
         And the days are growing longer.

         Oh, the days are growing longer;
When they lengthen to ripe and perfect prime,
  Then, oh, then, I will build my happy nest;
And all in that pleasant and balmy time,
  There never will be a bird so blest;
         And the days are growing longer.

       *       *       *       *       *

SUMMER.

Now sinks the Summer sun into the sea;
  Sure never such a sunset shone as this,
  That on its golden wing has borne such bliss;
              Dear Love to thee and me.

Ah, life was drear and lonely, missing thee,
  Though what my loss I did not then divine;
  But all is past--the sweet words, thou art mine,
              Make bliss for thee and me.

How swells the light breeze o'er the blossoming lea,
  Sure never winds swept past so sweet and low,
  No lonely, unblest future waiteth now;
              Dear Love for thee and me.

Look upward o'er the glowing West, and see,
  Surely the star of evening never shone
  With such a holy radiance--oh, my own,
              Heaven smiles on thee and me.


SUMMER SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

You will journey many a weary day and long,
  Ere you will see so restful and sweet a place,
As this, my home, my nest so downy and warm,
  The labor of many happy and hopeful days;
But its low brown walls are laid and softly lined,
  And oh, full happily now my rest I take,
And care not I when it lightly rocks in the wind,
  For the branch above though it bends will never break;
And close by my side rings out the voice of my mate--my lover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright--and
      Summer will last forever.

Now the stream that divides us from perfect bliss
  Seems floating past so narrow--so narrow,
You could span its wave such a morn as this,
  With a moment winged like a golden arrow,
And the sweet wind waves all the tasselled broom,
  And over the hill does it loitering come,
Oh, the perfect light--oh, the perfect bloom,
  And the silence is thrilled with the murmurous hum
Of the bees a-kissing the red-lipped clover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright--and
      Summer will last forever.

When the West is a golden glow, and lower
  The sun is sinking large and round,
Like a golden goblet spilling o'er,
  Glittering drops that drip to the ground--
Then I spread my lustrous wings and cleave the air
  Sailing high with a motion calm and slow,
Far down the green earth lies like a picture fair,
  Then with rapid wing I sink in the shining glow;
A-chasing the glinting, gleaming drops; oh, a diver
Am I in a clear and golden sea, and Summer will last forever.

The leaves with a pleasant rustling sound are stirred
  Of a night, and the stars are calm and bright;
And I know, although I am only a little bird,
  One large serious star is watching me all the night,
For when the dewy leaves are waved by the breeze,
  I see it forever smiling down on me.
So I cover my head with my wing, and sleep in peace,
  As blessed as ever a little bird can be;
And the silver moonlight falls over land and sea and river,
And the nights are cool, and the nights are still, and
      Summer will last forever.

I think you would journey many and many a day,
  Ere you so contented and blest a bird would see;
Not all the wealth of the world could lure my love away,
  For my brown little nest is all the world to me;
And care not I if brighter bowers there are