This fragile web of cadences I spin,
That I have only caught these songs since you
Voiced them upon your haunting violin.
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Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs,
As some lost melody returning stirsThe love of long ago;And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned.The moon is sinking into shadow-land.The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively,Wanders on restless wing;The cedars, chanting vespers to the sea,Await its answering,That comes in wash of waves along the strand,The while the moon slips into shadow-land.O! soft responsive voices of…
It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,
Beneath the drift of a twilight grey,Beneath the drowse of an ending day,And the curve of a golden moon.It is dark in the Lost Lagoon,And gone are the depths of haunting blue,The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,The singing firs, and the dusk and–you,And gone is the golden moon.O! lure of the Lost Lagoon,–I dream…
Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,As pensively she standsAwaiting Easter’s benediction falling,Like silver stars at night,Before she can obey the summons callingHer to her upward flight,Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrowEre she can hope to fly–Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrowAgainst the far, blue sky.Has not the purple of her vesture’s…
October’s orchestra plays softly on
And Autumn, the conductor wields anonThe Golden-rod– The baton that he swings.
Up the dusk-enfolded prairie,
Velvet cushioned, wild and wary,Then–the coyote’s cry.Rush of hoofs, and roar and rattle,Beasts of blood and breed,Twenty thousand frightened cattle,Then–the wild stampede.Pliant lasso circling widerIn the frenzied flight–Loping horse and cursing rider,Plunging through the night.Rim of dawn the darkness losingTrail of blackened soil;Perfume of the sage brush oozingOn the air like oil.Foothills to the Rockies…
Captive! Is there a hell to him like this?
He–proud and scornful, he–who laughed at law,He–scion of the deadly Iroquois,He–the bloodthirsty, he–the Mohawk chief,He–who despises pain and sneers at grief,Here in the hated Huron’s vicious clutch,That even captive he disdains to touch!Captive! Butnever conquered; Mohawk braveStoops not to be to anyman a slave;Least, to the puny tribe his soul abhors,The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle…