Rise to thy heights afar,

Down which the floods of glory fall and flow,

Too great thy splendors are.

So grow upon me slowly; sweetly break
Across death's silent deep,

long.

LEAN close and set thine ear against the bark;

Then tell me what faint, murmurous sounds are heard:

Hath not the oak stored up the song of bird,

A FLAME went flitting through the wood;
The neighboring birds all understood

Here was a marvel of their kind;
And silent was each feathered throat
To catch the brilliant stranger's note,
And folded every songster's wing
To hide its sober coloring.

Against the tender green outlined,
He bore himself with splendid ease,
As though alone among the trees.
The glory passed from bough to bough
The maple was in blossom now,
And then the oak, remembering
The crimson hint it gave in spring,
And every tree its branches swayed
And offered its inviting shade;
Where'er a bough detained him long,
A slender, silver thread of song
Was lightly, merrily unspun.
From early morn till day was done

The vision flitted to and fro.
At last the wood was all alone;
But, ere the restless flame had flown,
He left a secret with each bough,
And in the Fall, where one is now,

A thousand tanagers will glow.

MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR

My little neighbor's table 's set,
And slyly he comes down the tree,
His feet firm in each tiny fret
The bark has fashioned cunningly.

He pauses on a favorite knot;

Beneath the oak his feast is spread; He asks no friend to share his lot, Or dine with him on acorn bread.

He keeps his whiskers trim and neat, His tail with care he brushes through; He runs about on all four feet

When dining he sits up on two.

He has the latest stripe in furs,
And wears them all the year around;
He does not mind the prick of burs
When there are chestnuts to be found.

I watch his home and guard his store, A cozy hollow in a tree;

He often sits within his door

And chatters wondrous things to me.