Learned the secret from them of the beauti

ful verse elegiac,

VII

perfect in structure

When with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.

VIII

Down from the mountain descends the brooklet, rejoicing in freedom;

Little it dreams of the mill hid in the valley below;

Glad with the joy of existence, the child goes singing and laughing, Little dreaming what toils lie in the future concealed.

IX

As the ink from our pen, so flow our thoughts and our feelings

When we begin to write, however sluggish before.

X

Like the Kingdom of Heaven, the Fountain of Youth is within us;

If we seek it elsewhere, old shall we grow in the search.

XI

If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it;

Every arrow that flies feels the attraction of earth.

XII

Wisely the Hebrews admit no Present tense in their language;

While we are speaking the word, it is already the Past.

XIII

In the twilight of age all things seem strange and phantasmal,

As between daylight and dark ghost-like the landscape appears.

While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half concealed

Trembled and fell upon his beard of white,

So I behold these books upon their shelf,

My ornaments and arms of other days; Not wholly useless, though no longer used,

For they remind me of my other self, Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways

In which I walked, now clouded and confused.

MAD RIVER

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

TRAVELLER,

WHY dost thou wildly rush and roar,
Mad River, O Mad River?
Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour
Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er

This rocky shelf forever?

What secret trouble stirs thy breast?

Why all this fret and flurry?

Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest

From over-work and worry?

THE RIVER.

What wouldst thou in these mountains seek,

O stranger from the city?
Is it perhaps some foolish freak
Of thine, to put the words I speak
Into a plaintive ditty?

TRAVELLER.

Yes; I would learn of thee thy song,
With all its flowing numbers,
And in a voice as fresh and strong
As thine is, sing it all day long,
And hear it in my slumbers.

THE RIVER.

A brooklet nameless and unknown
Was I at first, resembling

A little child, that all alone

Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, Irresolute and trembling.

Later, by wayward fancies led,

For the wide world I panted; Out of the forest, dark and dread, Across the open fields I fled,

Like one pursued and haunted.

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud,

My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending.

I heard the distant ocean call,
Imploring and entreating;
Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall
I plunged, and the loud waterfall
Made answer to the greeting.

And now, beset with many ills,
A toilsome life I follow;
Compelled to carry from the hills
These logs to the impatient mills

Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms
The rudeness of my labors;
Daily I water with these arms
The cattle of a hundred farms,

And have the birds for neighbors.

Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble,

I burst my banks of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble.

Now go and write thy little rhyme,
As of thine own creating.
Thou seest the day is past its prime;
I can no longer waste my time;
The mills are tired of waiting.

POSSIBILITIES

WHERE are the Poets, unto whom belong The Olympian heights; whose singing shafts were sent

Straight to the mark, and not from bows half bent,

But with the utmost tension of the thong? Where are the stately argosies of song, Whose rushing keels made music as they

went

Sailing in search of some new continent,