Man, the dreamer, groping after what he should be,
Cheers himself with hoping to be what he would be;
When he hopes no longer, with self-adulation.
Fancies he was stronger at his first creation:
Else—in him inhering powers of intellection—
Death, by interfering with his mind's perfection,
Itself gives security to restore life's treasure,
Freed from all impurity, and in endless measure.
Thou, O Nature, knowest, yet no word is spoken.
Time, that ever flowest, presses on unbroken.
All in vain the sages toil with proof and question—
The immemorial ages give no least suggestion.
Portland, Or., 1876.
A JUNE SONG.
O song-birds from the east,
And sea-birds from the west,
And great birds of the shining wing,
That in the northlands nest,
Come, sing to my red, red rose,
And my lilies saintly white,
To my golden poppies sing
Your throatful of delight;
Lilt on the swinging boughs
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