The fine striæ show,—
Like arrows they go
Northwest to southeast,
Just as John Muir pleased!
And as he spoke I saw the huge creature glide,
With speed that scarcely lessened or increased,
From the far pole to ocean's melting tide.
Through countless boreal hours
It moved on its torn pathway deep and wide;
Its shining bulk I saw
Crunching the mountain tops with monstrous maw;—
To make our Four-Brooks Farm with all its flocks and flowers.
SUMMER BEGINS
The bright sun has been hid so long,
Such endless rains, such clouds and glooms!
But now, as with a burst of song,
The happy Summer morning blooms.
The brooks are full, it is their youth;
No hint of shrunken age have they;
They shout like children, and in truth,
No human child so careless-gay.
How fresh the woods, each separate leaf
Is shining in the joyful sun.
Strange! I have half forgotten grief;
I think that life has just begun.
"STROLLING TOWARD SHOTTERY"
Strolling toward Shottery on one showery day,
We saw upon the turf beside the path
