Such as ye are should inherit—
Be ye strong even in your meekness.
Born were ye to these strange uses,
To brief joy and crushing ill,
To small good and great abuses;
Yet oh, yield not, till they kill.
The stag wounded runneth steady
With his blood in streams a-gushing;
Soul and spirit, be ye ready
For the arrows toward ye rushing.
SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS.
Now what ails our gentle friend?
In his eye a meaning double,
Sorrow and defiance blend—
Let us soothe him of his trouble.
Poet! do not pass us by:
See how we are robed to meet you;
Heed you not our perfumed sigh?
Heed you not how sweet we greet you?
Ever since the breath of morn
We have waited for your coming,
Fearing when the bee's dull horn
Round our quiet bower was humming:
We have kept our sweets for thee—
Poet, do not pass us by:
Place us on thy breast, for see!
By the sunset we must die.
SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.
Bathe thy pale face in the flood
Which overflows this crystal fountain,
Then to rouse thy sluggish blood,
Seek its source far up the mountain.
Note thou how the stream doth sing
Its soft carol, low and light,
