By William Henry Davies
Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,
Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;
Thy beauty makes me like the child
That cries aloud to own thy light:
The little child that lifts each arm
To press thee to her bosom warm.
Though there are birds that sing this night
With thy white beams across their throats,
Let my deep silence speak for me
More than for them their sweetest notes:
Who worships thee till music fails,
Is greater than thy nightingales.
By James Whitcomb Riley
_The Child-World–long and long since lost to view–
A Fairy Paradise!–
How always fair it was and fresh and new–
How every affluent hour heaped heart and eyes
With treasures of surprise!
Enchantments tangible: The under-brink
Of dawns that launched the sight
Up seas of gold: The dewdrop on the pink,
With all the green earth in it and blue height
Of heavens infinite:
The liquid, dripping songs of orchard-birds–
The wee bass of the bees,–
With lucent deeps of silence afterwards;
The gay, clandestine whisperings of the breeze
And glad leaves of the trees.
* * * * *
O Child-World: After this world–just as when
I found you first sufficed
My soulmost need–if I found you again,
With all my childish dream so realised,
I should not be surprised._
By August Wilhelm Wern
Welcome, sweet songster; thy return
Brings gladness to my soul.
And now my heart will cease to yearn
And list to thy carol.
Thou art of nature’s orchestra–
The warbling clarinet.
At times thy songs appeal to me
Like the famous sextette,
At early dawn I hear thee call
Me oft from reverie.
Then all my being dost enthrall,
And make me worship thee.
Thy silvery voice at midnight hour
Sounds sweetly from afar,
Or from the nearby trellised bower
Illumined by moon and star.
Oh! let thy vibratory note
Blend with my love and heart,
And on ethereal waves afloat
To Her in realms apart.
Then all Her sweet celestial love
Will joyously rebound,
With angel music from above,
Her voice to me redound.
PICTURES ON THE SIDEWALK
By Mary Burns
Another drizzly, gray Seattle day.
I could mope and complain,
as I sometimes do.
Instead I grab my umbrella
and go for a walk in the rain.
And as I walk,
I notice the rain-slick sidewalk
marked by autumn colors
in scattered patterns,
beautiful to behold.
Each tree an artist,
leaving pictures on the sidewalk.