O clouds, ye little tender sheep,
Pastured in fields of blue,

While moon and stars your fold can keep
And gently shepherd you,

Let me, too, follow in the train
That flocks across the night,
Or lingers on the open plain
With new-shorn fleeces white.

O singing winds, that wander far,
Yet always seem at home,

And freely play 'twixt star and star
Along the bending dome,

I often listen to your song,
Yet never hear you say

One word of all the happy worlds
That sing so far away.

For they are free, ye all are free,
And bird, and dew, and light,
Can dart upon the azure sea
And leave me to my night;

Oh, would like theirs had been my birth,
Then I, without a sigh,

Might sleep this night through on the earth

To waken in the sky.

THE MORNING-GLORY

WE wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;

Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,

That we could only say,
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem -

For, sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,

As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,

As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,

The last and perfect added gift

To crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth

The love we could not say,
As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up,
Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,

Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round-

We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;

The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning
Has passed away from earth.

O Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air
Her spirit to sustain;
But up in groves of Paradise

Full surely we shall see
Our morning-glory beautiful

Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

DRIFTING

My soul to-day

Is far away,

Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat,

A bird afloat,

Swings round the purple peaks remote:

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim,
The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands,
The gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles
O'er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates

Beguiling to her bright estates.

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