The Rambler

I do not see the hills around,

Nor mark the tints the copses wear;

I do not note the grassy ground

And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note

Of cuckoos hid on either hand,

The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat

When eve's brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree, and mead -

All eloquent of love divine -

Receives their constant careful heed:

Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear,

The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,

Are those far back ones missed when near,

And now perceived too late by me!

The Old Gown (Song)

I have seen her in gowns the brightest,

   Of azure, green, and red,

And in the simplest, whitest,

   Muslined from heel to head;

I have watched her walking, riding,

   Shade-flecked by a leafy tree,

Or in fixed thought abiding

   By the foam-fingered sea.

In woodlands I have known her,

   When boughs were mourning loud,

In the rain-reek she has shown her

   Wild-haired and watery-browed.

And once or twice she has cast me

   As she pomped along the street

Court-clad, ere quite she had passed me,

   A glance from her chariot-seat.

But in my memoried passion

   For evermore stands she

In the gown of fading fashion

   She wore that night when we,

Doomed long to part, assembled

   In the snug small room; yea, when

She sang with lips that trembled,

   "Shall I see his face again?"