Birds and poets -- Touches of nature -- A bird medley -- April -- Spring poems -- Our rural divinity -- Before genius -- Before beauty -- Emerson -- The flight of the eagle
oss-scalloped stake, Down, almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.
He called on his mate: He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Soothe! soothe! soothe! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me.
Low hangs the moon--it rose late. Oh it is lagging--oh I think it is heavy with love, with love.
Oh madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, With love--with love.
O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers! What is that little black thing I see there in the white?
Loud! loud! loud! Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves: Surely you must know who is here, is here; You must know who I am, my love.
Low-hanging moon! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? Oh it is the
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