Country Twilight's Peace

White fingers of the birches idly strum
The harp of summer, while the placid stream
With low contralto music weaves a dream
Love-cradled in my heart. The first stars come
Pale saffron, with a young white moon from some
Still port afloat upon a silver beam
Of mystic vapors of the sky to gleam
Softly upon the river's platinum
Bright ripples. As night's curtain gently closes
A killdeer chimes the hour--No artifice
Of man can thus enwrap me in a fleece
Of calm enhanced by lingering wild roses.
Oh, restless world, when will you fathom bliss,
Your great heart know a country twilight's peace?

Ways of Farms

"Why do you keep the farm?" I said to him,
"You should retire and spend your slowing days
In city-comfort." -- "But I like the ways
Of farms," he answered looking at the slim
White birches swaying by the river's brim
Where glad larks fluted; then I saw his gaze
Rove to the meadow where the pheasant lays
Her eggs, the slough where bright-winged mallards swim.
I knew he meant the little things--the fall
Of furrowed loam ... And almost envious
I breathed the wild, sweet scent the spring released.
I knew he heard within a killdeer call
Across a field of wheat, the Angeles,
For he stood silent till the chiming ceased.

I Love the Old

The hills no longer echo songs I sang
When copper glow announced the break of day.
The winding trails where children's laughter rang
Are concrete walks; and all along the way
Where pink wild roses, modestly yet gay,
Lifted their faces to the sun are found
Their cultured sisters flaunting an array
Of brilliant color. Thirsty, parching ground
Is now a greening carpet where abound
Tall junipers with pfitzers at their feet.
The loved old rambling home, enlarged and gowned
In luxury, is leisure's calm retreat.
Upon my soul the homestead left its stamp
For still I love to light the coal-oil lamp.

Song of Willow Trees

You never knew I kept the balm to ease
My city-loneliness? For country-bred
I need to hear the song of willow trees,
The cry of gulls and killdeer overhead.
I know a sunlit clearing where I rest,
Fresh-carpeted with clover, honey-sweet;                                      
A rolling lilied hillside where I quest;                                      
A country lane, dust-cushioned for my feet;                                  
I listen to the bullfrog's night quartette
When arms of dusk enfold a quiet town;                                        
A little church I enter nor forget
To wear your rose upon my simple gown--
You never knew I still keep all of these,
That I still hear the song of willow trees?