Sing out thy notes on high
To sunbeam straying by

Or passing cloud;

Heedless if thou art heard

Sing thy full song aloud.

Oh that it were with me

As with the flower; Blooming on its own tree For butterfly and bee

Its summer morns:

That I might bloom mine hour

A rose in spite of thorns.

Oh that my work were done

As birds' that soar

Rejoicing in the sun :

That when my time is run
And daylight too,

I so might rest once more
Cool with refreshing dew.

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS.

N the wind of January

Down flits the snow,

Travelling from the frozen North

As cold as it can blow.

Poor robin redbreast,

Look where he comes;

Let him in to feel your fire,

And toss him of your

On the wind in February

Snowflakes float still,

crumbs.

Half inclined to turn to rain.
Nipping, dripping, chill.

Then the thaws swell the streams,

And swollen rivers swell the sea :

If the winter ever ends

How pleasant it will be

In the wind of windy March

The catkins drop down, Curly, caterpillar-like,

Curious green and brown.

With concourse of nest-building birds
And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers

And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April

Rich fruit-tree blossoms fail, On the hedged-in orchard-green, From the southern wall. Apple-trees and pear-trees

Shed petals white or pink. Plum-trees and peach-trees;

While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze

Beside pure scent of flowers,

While all things wax and nothing wanes
In lengthening daylight hours.
Across the hyacinth beds

The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,

Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June
Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose

And moss rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
Drives the pelting hail,

From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.

Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind
Corn-fields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
Weightless on the breeze,
First fruits of the year's decay
From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
And drop from the shoots;

Some glow golden in the sun,

Some show green and streaked, Some set forth a purple bloom, Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October

At the equinox,

Stirred up in his hollow bed

Broad ocean rocks;

Plunge the ships on his bosom,

Leaps and plunges the foam, It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea That they were safe at home.

In slack wind of November

The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
When the fog lifts.

Loosened from their sapless twigs

Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,

The year's sands nearly run.
Speeds on the shortest day,
Curtails the sun;

With its bleak raw wind

Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts,
Brings back the snow.

AN APPLE GATHERING.

I PLUCKED pink blossoms from mine apple-tree And wore them all that evening in my hair:

Then in due season when I went to see

I found no apples there.

With dangling basket all along the grass

As I had come I went the selfsame track: My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass So empty-handed back.