Fantastic, brief as they, and, like them, spun
Of gilded nothingness!
All things are well with her.
T is good to be alive, to see the light
That plays upon the grass, to feel (and sigh
With perfect pleasure) the mild breezes stir
Among the garden roses, red and white,
With whiffs of fragrancy.
There is no troublous thought,
No painful memory, no grave regret,
To mar the sweet suggestions of the hour :
The soul, at peace, reflects the peace without,
Forgetting grief as sunset skies forget
The morning s transient shower.
PHANTASIES
(AFTER ROBERT SCHUMANN).
I. EVENING.
Rest, beauty, stillness : not a waif of cloud
From gray-blue east sheer to the yellow west—
No film of mist the utmost slopes to shroud.
The earth lies grave, by quiet airs caressed,
And shepherdeth her shadows, but each stream,
Free to the sky, is by that glow possessed,
