There's a life unknown to the careless glance; And under the stillness an airy prance,

And slender, jointed things astir,

And gossamer wings in a sunny whir,— And a world of work and dance.

Soft in its throbbing, the conscious green
Demurely answers the breeze;

While down in its tangle, in riotous sheen,

The hoppers are bending their knees;

And only a beetle, or lumbering ant,
As he pushes a feathery spray aslant,—

Or the sudden dip of a foraging bird,
With its vibrant trail of the clover stirred,
Discovers the secret haunt.

Ah, the grass-world dies in the autumn days,
When, studded with sheaf and stack,
The fields lie browning in sullen haze,
And creak in the farmer's track.
Hushed is the tumult the daisies knew,

The hidden sport of the supple crew;

And lonely and dazed in the glare of the day

The stiff-kneed hoppers refuse to play

In the stubble that mocks the blue.

For all things feel that the time is drear

When life runs low in the heart of the year.

SHADOW-EVIDENCE.

I.

Swift o'er the sunny grass

I saw a shadow pass

With subtle charm;

So quick, so full of life,
With thrilling joy so rife,

I started lest, unknown,
My step-ere it was flown-
Had done it harm.

II.

Why look up to the blue?
The bird was gone, I knew,
Far out of sight.

Steady and keen of wing,

The slight, impassioned thing,

Intent on a goal unknown,

Had held its course alone
In silent flight.

III.

Dear little bird, and fleet,

Flinging down at my feet
Shadow for song:

More sure am I of thee

Unseen, unheard, by me—

Than of some things felt and known,

And guarded as my own

All my life long.

ENFOLDINGS.

The snowflake that softly, all night, is whitening tree-top and pathway;

The avalanche suddenly rushing with darkness and death to the

hamlet.

The ray stealing in through the lattice to waken the day-loving

baby;

The pitiless horror of light in the sun-smitten reach of the desert.

The seed with its pregnant surprise of welcome young leaflet and blossom;

The despair of the wilderness tangle, and treacherous thicket of forest.

The happy west-wind as it startles some noon-laden flower from its dreaming;

The hurricane crashing its way through the homes and the life of the valley.

The play of the jet-lets of flame when the children laugh out on the hearthstone;

The town or the prairie consumed in a terrible, hissing combustion.

The glide of a wave on the sands with its myriad sparkle in

breaking;

The roar and the fury of ocean, a limitless maelstrom of ruin.

The leaping of heart unto heart with bliss that can never be

spoken;

The passion that maddens, and shows how God may be thrust from His creatures.

For this do I tremble and start when the rose on the vine taps my shoulder,

For this when the storm beats me down my soul groweth bolder and bolder.

"O WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST!"

O wind that blows out of the West!

Thou hast swept over mountain and sea,
Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings
The breath of my love to me?
Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips?
Or tangled her soft, brown hair?
Or fluttered the fragrant heart
Of the rose she loves to wear?

O sun that goes down in the West!
Hast thou seen my love to-day,
As she sits in her beautiful prime
Under skies so far away?

Hast thou gilded a path for her feet,

Or deepened the glow on her cheeks,
Or bent from the skies to hear

The low, sweet words she speaks ?

O stars that are bright in the West

When the hush of the night is deep!

Do ye see my love as she lies

Like a chaste, white flower, asleep?