And the kine's keeper, came
Slow up the valley path,
And laid them underneath
My cool and rustling leaves;
And I could feel them there
As in the quiet shade
They stood with tender thoughts,
That pass'd along their life
Like wings on a still lake,
Blessing me; and to God,
The blessed God, who cares
For all my little leaves,
Went up the silent praise;
And I was glad with joy
Which life of laboring things
Ill knows, the joy that sinks-
Into a life of rest.

Ages have fled since then:

But deem not my pierced trunk

And scanty leafage serve
No high behest; my name
Is sounded far and wide;
And in the Providence
That guides the steps of men,
Hundreds have come to view
My grandeur in decay;

And there hath pass'd from me
A quiet influence

Into the minds of men:
The silver head of age,
The majesty of laws,
The very name of God,

And holiest things that are
Have won upon the heart
Of humankind the more,
For that I stand to meet
With vast and bleaching trunk,
The rudeness of the sky.

Womanhood's years have been only a dream.

Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,

With your light lashes just sweeping my face,

sionate pain,

Long I to-night for your presence

again.

MAKE me no vows of constancy, dear friend,

To love me, though I die, thy whole life long,

And love no other till thy days shall end;

Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so; I would not reach out of my quiet grave

To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go:

Love should not be a slave.

strife:

The vexing gnats of every day.
Yet powerless he to scathe or slay
The steady strain that never stops

Is mightier than the fiercest shock; The constant fall of water-drops

Will groove the adamantine rock; We feel our noblest powers decay, In feeble wars with every day.

We rise to meet a heavy blow

Our souls a sudden bravery fills But we endure not always so

The drop-by-drop of little ills! We still deplore and still obey The hard behests of every day.

The heart which boldly faces death Upon the battle-field, and dares Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath

The needle-points of frets and cares; "he stoutest spirits they dismay The tiny stings of every day.