"THY praise sounds cold, indeed, to me

Thou friend, that ever, smilingly,

Dost read the paltry words that free

My petty thoughts in minstrelsy."

Just good enough to please a friend

With the mere artifice of verse;

Just bad enough in one to blend

A pleasure slight, a mighty curse, -

My little songs fly forth to die,

Like insects frail that live a day;

And yet my soul doth ever sigh

Its secret thoughts once more to say.

For when I see the mountains stand,

Snow-capped in silent majesty,

I cannot sit with idle hand,

But ever, ever, restlessly,

I long to tell the story wild

That rugged peaks to me have told,

When, sitting like a musing child,

The dreamy clouds above me rolled.

And every tree in forest green

Its message has of sympathy;

And every flower, however mean,

Keeps a sweet fairy-tale for me.

I cannot hear the murmuring

Of breezes in the evening gloom,

Without a wish once more to sing,

Once more to tell of woodland bloom.

I loathe the wretched power of song,

But cannot from its spell be free,

While birds their wild, sweet notes prolong,

And flowers gaze reproachfully.

F. A. T.