One fate is told. This money-maddened throng
Moves to the twilight of its troubled day,
And high souls stand without yon shadowy gates,
Thy flame-crowned bards, no echo-voices they,
Whose lips shall flood the waiting world with song.

THE maple buds are red, are red,
The robin's call is sweet;
The blue sky floats above thy head,
The violets kiss thy feet.
The sun paints emeralds on the spray,
And sapphires on the lake
A million wings unfold to-day,
A million flowers awake.
Their starry cups the cowslips lift
To catch the golden light,
And like a spirit fresh from shrift
The cherry-tree is white.
The innocent looks up with eyes
That know no deeper shade
Than falls from wings of butterflies,
Too fair to make afraid.