I sit and dream that I hear, as of yore, My Elmwood chimneys' deep-throated roar ; If much be gone, there is much remains; To send a child's armada of chips! sere! "Well, maybe more love with the less gift goes,' I growl, as, half moody, I toast my toes. UNDER THE WILLOWS. FRANK-HEARTED hostess of the field and wood, Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, June is the pearl of our New England year. Still a surprisal, though expected long, Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait, Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back, Then, from some southern ambush in the sky, With one great gush of blossom storms the world. A week ago the sparrow was divine; The bluebird, shifting his light load of song From post to post along the cheerless fence, Was as a rhymer ere the poet come; But now, O rapture! sunshine winged and voiced, |