Produced by Patricia Peters, Tonya Allen, and Project
Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
1923
The Veery
The Song-Sparrow
The Maryland Yellow-Throat
The Whip-Poor-Will
Wings of a Dove
The Hermit Thrush
Sea-Gulls of Manhattan
The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet
The Angler's Reveille
A November Daisy
The Lily of Yorrow
If All the Skies
The After-Echo
Dulciora
Matins
The Parting and the Coming Guest
When Tulips Bloom
Spring in the North
Spring in the South
How Spring Comes to Shasta Jim
The First Bird o' Spring
A Bunch of Trout-Flies
A Noon-Song
Turn o' the Tide
Sierra Madre
School
Indian Summer
Light between the Trees
The Fall of the Leaves
Three Alpine Sonnets
A Snow-Song
Roslin and Hawthornden
The Heavenly Hills of Holland
Flood-Tide of Flowers
Salute to the Trees
The Grand Canyon
God of the Open Air
The Distant Road
The Welcome Tent
The Great Cities
The Friendly Trees
The Pathway of Rivers
The Glory of Ruins
The Tribe of the Helpers
The Good Teacher
The Camp-Fires of My Friend
The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie;
I longed to hear a simpler strain,—the woodnotes of the veery.
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
I only know one song more sweet,—the vespers of the veery.
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.
1895.
There is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have sung
Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell
The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle-joyful song I heard.
Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is t