Oh, for a soul that fulfills

      Music like that of a bird!

      Thrilling with rapture the hills,

      Heedless if any one heard.

      Or, like the flower that blooms

      Lone in the midst of the trees,

      Filling the woods with perfumes,

      Careless if any one sees.

      Or, like the wandering wind,

      Over the meadows that swings,

      Bringing wild sweets to mankind,

      Knowing not that which it brings.

      Oh, for a way to impart

      Beauty, no matter how hard!

      Like unto nature, whose art

      Never once dreams of reward.

      She walks with the wind on the windy height

      When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,

      And all night long she calls through the night,

      "O, my children, come home!"

      Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,

      Tosses around her like a shroud,

      While over the deep her voice rings loud, —

      "O, my children, come home, come home!

      O, my children, come home!"

      Who is she who wanders alone,

      When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?

      Who walks all night and makes her moan,

      "O, my children, come home!"

      Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;

      Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,

      While over the world is heard her wail, —

      "O, my children, come home, come home!

      O, my children, come home!"

      She walks with the wind in the windy wood;

      The sad rain drips from her hair and hood,

      And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,

      "O, my children, come home!"

      "O, my children, come home!"

      Where the trees are gaunt and the rocks are drear,

      The owl and the fox crouch down in fear,

      While wild through the wood her voice they hear, —

      "O, my children, come home, come home!

      O, my children, come home!"

      Who is she who shudders by

      When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?

      Who walks all night with her wailing cry,

      "O, my children, come home!"

      Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,

      With pale feet wounded and hands wan-wrung,

      Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung, —

      "O, my children, come home, come home!

      O, my children, come home!"

      'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,

      The mother of Death and Mysteries,

      Who cries on the wind all night to these,

      "O, my children, come home!"

      The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,

      Calling her children home again,

      Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,

      "O, my children, come home, come home!

      O, my children, come home!"

      Do you know the way that goes

      Over fields of rue and rose, —

      Warm of scent and hot of hue,

      Roofed with heaven's bluest blue, —

      To the Vale of Dreams Come True?

      Do you know the path that twines,

      Banked with elder-bosks and vines,

      Under boughs that shade a stream,

      Hurrying, crystal as a gleam,

      To the Hills of Love a-Dream?

      Tell me, tell me, have you gone

      Through the fields and woods of dawn,

      Meadowlands and trees that roll,

      Great of grass and huge of bole,

      To the Land of Hearts Made Whole?

      On the way, among the fields,

      Poppies lift vermilion shields,

      In whose hearts the golden Noon,

      Murmuring her drowsy tune,

      Rocks the sleepy bees that croon.

      On the way, amid the woods,

      Mandrakes muster multitudes,

      'Mid whose blossoms, white as tusk,

      Glides the glimmering Forest-Dusk,

      With her fluttering moths of musk.

      Here you hear the stealthy stir

      Of shy lives of hoof and fur;

      Harmless things that hide and peer,

      Hearts that sucked the milk of fear —

      Fox and rabbit, squirrel and deer.

      Here you see the mossy flight

      Of faint forms that love the night —

      Whippoorwill- and owlet-things,

      Whose far call before you brings

      Wonder-worlds of happenings.

      Now in sunlight, now in shade,

      Water, like a brandished blade,

      Foaming forward, wild of flight,

      Startles then arrests the sight,

      Whirling steely loops of light.

      Thro' the tree-tops, down the vale,

      Breezes pass and leave a trail

      Of cool music that the birds,

      Following in happy herds,

      Gather up in twittering words.

      Blossoms, frail and manifold,

      Strew the way with pearl and gold;

      Blurs, that seem the darling print

      Of the Springtime's feet, or glint

      Of her twinkling gown's torn tint.

      There the myths of old endure:

      Dreams that are the world-soul's cure;

      Things that have no place or play

      In the facts of Everyday

      'Round your presence smile and sway.

      Suddenly your eyes may see,

      Stepping softly from her tree,

      Slim of form and wet with dew,

      The brown dryad; lips the hue

      Of