This is the key to the playhouseIn the woods by the pebbly shore,It’s winter now, I wonder ifThere’s snow about the door?I wonder if the fir trees tapGreen fingers on the pane,If sea gulls cry and the roof is wetAnd tinkle-y with rain?I wonder if the flower-sprigged cupsAnd plates sit on their shelf,And if my…
You may look as you looked the day beforeAnd go by the same old name,You may bustle about in street and shopYou may sit at home and sew,But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gullsWherever your feet may go.You may chat with the neighbors of this and thatAnd close to your fire keep,But you’ll hear…
Barefoot where the fern grows curlyAnd grass is cool between each toe,On a summer morning-O!On a summer morning!That is when the birds go byUp the sunny slopes of air,And each rose has a butterflyOr a golden bee to wear;And I am glad in every toeSuch a summer morning-O!Such a summer morning!
Though the fields lay goldenSomething whispered,-‘Snow.’Leaves were green and stirring,Berries, luster-glossed,But beneath warm feathersSomething cautioned,-‘Frost.’All the sagging orchardsSteamed with amber spice,But each wild breast stiffenedAt remembered ice.Something told the wild geeseIt was time to fly,Summer sun was on their wings,Winter in their cry.
