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The waters know their own, and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delight.


The stars come nightly to the sky;

The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,

Can keep my own away from me.


AMERICA, 1863–


The Flag Goes By
Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
A flash of color beneath the sky:
Hats off !
The flag is passing by!


Blue and crimson and white it shines,
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.
Hats off !
The colors before us fly;
But more than the flag is passing by.



Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great,
Fought to make and to save the State:
Weary marches and sinking ships;
Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace;
March of a strong land's swift increase;
Equal justice, right and law,
Stately honor and reverend awe;


Sign of a nation, great and strong
To ward her people from foreign wrong:
Pride and glory and honor, - all
Live in the colors to stand or fall.


Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;
And loyal hearts are beating high :
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!

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The birds have hid, the winds are low,
The brake is awake, the grass aglow:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover,
The day is over,
And evening come.


The heavy beetle spreads her wings
The toad has the road, the cricket sings:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover,
The day is over,
And evening come.



It is that pale, delaying hour
When nature closes like a flower,
And on the spirit lies,
The silence of the earth and skies.


· From "Poems,” published by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., Boston.



The world has thoughts she will not own
When shade and dream with night have flown;
Bright overhead, a star
Makes golden guesses what they are.



Now is Light, sweet mother, down the west,
With little Song against her breast;
She took him up, all tired with play,
And fondly bore him far away.


While he sleeps, one wanders in his stead,
A fainter glory round her head;
She follows happy waters after,
Leaving behind low, rippling laughter.


Behind the hilltop drops the sun,
The curled heat falters on the sand,
While evening's ushers, one by one,
Lead in the guests of Twilight Land.


The bird is silent overhead,
Below the beast has laid him down;
Afar, the marbles watch the dead,
The lonely steeple guards the town.


The south wind feels its amorous course
To cloistered sweet in thickets found;
The leaves obey its tender force,
And stir 'twixt silence and a sound.

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There is something in the Autumn that is native to

my blood Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keep

ing time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 10 Of bugles going by.

And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;

We must rise and follow her, 15 When from every hill of fame

She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

1 From “ Songs from Vagabondia,” by Bliss Carman. Used by the courteous permission of the author and the publishers, Messrs. Small, Maynard, & Co.

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