WHITE

Purple mountains-oh, purple and blue-
Rippling under the sky;

And against them, nearer and brighter,
The many-colored trees,

With tasseled boughs uplifted,

And flowery young leaves.

And before me, trailing down the slope,

The dogwood, like a snow-nymph,

Leads the filmy-robed Spring.

THE OAK

The old oak lets fall its crimson leaves

Tiny fuzzy leaves,

Drooping, shivering,

Tender as a babe new-born.

The hard old oak,

Brother of the wind,

Friend of storms,

Shakes out young leaves like a thin pale veil

Of rose and mauve,

That shades the sun for him,

And fluttering, flickering,

Softens the breeze.

Is it a new, new world,
That rosy baby leaves-
So tender!-

Should droop from the brown old oak?
A new, new world?

AZALEAS

Spread them wide,

Lovely ladies,

Spread your skirts wide.

Pink and white

Oh, fair and chaste!

Flutter down the mountain,

Rest in the wood.

Gold and red fire

Oh, eager and warm!

Gather in the hollows,

Shine in the shade.

THE MOCKING-BIRD

I hear a thousand thousand tremors

Of clear water

Falling lacily in the sun.

I hear one, two-seven shivers

Of deep bells

Ringing under the sea.

I hear a chiming of soldiers in bright armor Riding up a hill—

Oh, far away, far away!

I hear sweet words, silver words,

Musically clashing down

From the tune-locked lips of lovers
Up in Heaven.

Like the sweep of bright spoil over the blue

When the storm has gone,

They move over and under
The sunshine and shadow,

Capturing the new-blown Summer

As she walks in the wood.

My porch stands high,

MY PORCH

And between the floor and the roof the apple-tree Shoots in its green branches.

The blossoms are gone,

But silver sunlight dapples the leaves,

And little apples are rounding in the shadows.

Below me in the garden

Young shoots make green lines in the tawny soil.

Little peach-trees border it,

With three dark pines behind them.

And beyond, blue and green through the new-washed air,
Curves upward the crest of a hill
Against the pale blue sky.

So sweet, so still—

Hardly a breeze is blowing
To rustle the shining leaves.

At peace is the round, green world

At peace.
Everywhere.

"Twelve miles?"

THE MOUNTAINEER'S WIFE

"Twelve miles-in the cool o' th' mornin'."

"But look-such a tiny baby!"

"He's five weeks a'ready"-she snuggled him close in her

arms

"But I couldn' quite leave him with the othah children." "Others?"-she looked so young,

Her milky brow and blue gentian eyes.

"O' cou'se-six-an' Co'nelia an' Jim ah lots o' help:

Las' wintah, when they couldn' go to school-”

"Couldn't go to school?"

"Coz 'twas too fah an' they had no shoes-

See, they made these nice little baskets-
Jus' like my big ones."