THE WATER-LILY

By John Banister Tabb

HENCE, O fragrant form of light,

Hast thou drifted through the

night,

Swanlike, to a leafy nest,
On the

rest?

restless waves, at

Art thou from the snowy zone
Of a mountain-summit blown,
Or the blossom of a dream,
Fashioned in the foamy stream?

Nay; methinks the maiden moon,
When the daylight came too soon,
Fleeting from her bath to hide,
Left her garment in the tide.

THE SONG-SPARROW*

T

By Henry van Dyke

HERE is a bird I know so well,

It seems as if he must have sung
Beside crib when I was young;

my

Before I knew the way to spell

The name of even the smallest bird,

His gentle-joyful song I heard.

From "The Builders and other Poems," by Henry van Dyke. Copy right, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is that, every year,

Sings "Sweet

sweet· sweet

very merry cheer."

He comes in March, when winds are strong,

And snow returns to hide the earth;

But still he warms his heart with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade; and every day
Repeats his small, contented lay;
As if to say, we need not fear

The season's change, if love is here
With "Sweet — sweet · sweet—very merry cheer."

He does not wear a Joseph's-coat

Of many colors, smart and gay;
His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With darker patches at his throat.
And yet of all the well-dressed throng
Not one can sing so brave a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing, to hear
His "Sweet sweet sweet

A lofty place he does not love,

very merry

But sits by choice, and well at ease,
In hedges, and in little trees

That stretch their slender arms above

The meadow-brook; and there he sings
Till all the field with pleasure rings;

And so he tells in every ear,

That lowly homes to heaven are near

In "Sweet

cheer."

very merry cheer."

I like the tune, I like the words;
They seem so true, so free from art,
So friendly, and so full of heart,
That if but one of all the birds
Could be my comrade everywhere,
My little brother of the air,

This is the one I'd choose, my dear,
Because he'd bless me, every year,

With "Sweet

AN ANGLER'S WISH*

By Henry van Dyke

I

HEN tulips bloom in Union
Square,

And timid breaths of vernal air
Go wandering down the dusty
town,

Like children lost in Vanity

Fair;

When every long, unlovely row

Of westward houses stands aglow,

And leads the eyes toward sunset skies
Beyond the hills where green trees grow;

Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I'm only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.

From "The Builders and other Poems," by Henry van Dyke. Copy right, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

II

I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough
Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plough.

The thistle-birds have changed their dun,
For yellow coats, to match the sun;
And in the same array of flame
The Dandelion Show 's begun.

The flocks of

young anemones

Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these?

III

I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the blue-birds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,

Where water flows, where green grass grows, Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."

And, best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.

How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing

In days so sweet with music's balm !

IV

'T is not a proud desire of mine; I ask for nothing superfine;

No heavy weight, no salmon great, To break the record

or my

Only an idle little stream,

line:

Whose amber waters softly gleam,

Where I may wade, through woodland shade, And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:

Only a trout or two, to dart

From foaming pools, and try my art:

No more I'm wishing-old-fashioned fishing, And just a day on Nature's heart.

DAWN

By Richard Watson Gilder

HE night was dark, though sometimes a faint star

A little while a little space made

bright.

Dark was the night and like an

iron bar

Lay heavy on the land-till

o'er the sea

Slowly, within the East, there grew a light Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be The herald of a greater. The pale white Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height