Tell me, what can you see from your The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, perch Above there over the tower of the church? WEATHERCOCK. And grind them into flour. I look down over the farms; I can see the roofs and the streets be- | And I fling to the air my arms, low, And the people moving to and fro, street, The great salt sea, and the fishermen's fleet. I can see a ship come sailing in For I know it is all for me. I hear the sound of flails Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails, Louder and louder roars. Beyond the headlands and harbor of I stand here in my place, Lynn, And a young man standing on the deck, With a silken kerchief round his neck. Now he is pressing it to his lips, And blowing the kisses toward the MAIDEN. Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, WEATHERCOCK. I change with all the winds that blow, t is only because they made me so, And people would think it wondrous strange, If I, a Weathercock, should not change. O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair, When you and your lover meet to-day You will thank me for looking some other way. THE WINDMILL BEHOLD! a giant am I! Aloft here in my tower, With my foot on the rock below, I meet it face to face As a brave man meets his foe. And while we wrestle and strive, My master, the miller, stands And feeds me with his hands; For he knows who makes him thrive, Who makes him lord of lands. On Sundays I take my rest; Church-going bells begin THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE THE tide rises, the tide falls, Along the sea-sands damp and brown And the tide rises, the tide falls. Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white Efface the footprints in the sands, The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls. SONNETS MY CATHEDRAL LIKE two cathedral towers these stately pines THE BURIAL OF THE POET RICHARD HENRY DANA IN the old churchyard of his native town, And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, And left him to his rest and his re nown. Uplift their fretted summits tipped The snow was falling, as if Heaven with cones; The arch beneath them is not built with stones, Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines, And carved this graceful arabesque of vines; dropped down White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall; The dead around him seemed to wake, and call His name, as worthy of so white a crown. No organ but the wind here sighs And now the moon is shining on the BECALMED upon the sea of Thought, On either side, behind, before, Blow, breath of inspiration, blow! Blow, breath of song! until I feel THE POET'S CALENDAR JANUARY JANUS am I; oldest of potentates; Forward I look, and backward, and below I count, as god of avenues and gates, The years that through my portals come and go. I block the roads, and drift the fields |