I can't believe my wedding day was fifty years ago!
This is the second day of March! The clock is ticking slow;
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You walked beside me, quick and free;
With lingering touch you grasped my hand;
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The wind may blow the snow about,
For all I care, says Jack,
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It was a cloudy, dismal day, and I was all alone,
For early in the morning John Earl and Nathan Stone
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At the baby-house door sits my sweet little Kitty,
In her apron lies Kitty, her namesake, asleep;
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Down in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
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Dear Polly, these are joyful days!
Your feet can choose their own sweet ways;
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We are so close together
Though you are far away,
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The clouds look low and heavy, as if there would be rain,
It always means bad weather when you hear the brook so plain.
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Down to the sea all night, all day,
Firm-rooted near its ebb and flow,
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O, silly little Calla! why,
You had enough to do;
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As I was coming down the street,
I saw the saddest sight;
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Green slope of autumn fields,
And soft November sun,
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Where the oak fell, a great road leads away,
Across the country to the door of day,
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A blushing wild pink rose,
By tangled woods and ways,
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When autumn winds are high,
They wake and trouble me
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When in the quiet house I sat alone,
Sometimes I heard your footfall drawing near;
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Two
I heard to-day the first sweet song of spring—
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Oh, rest your oars and let me drift
While all the stars come out to see!
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More than a hundred years ago
They raised for her this little stone;
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High at the window in her cage,
The old canary sits and sings,
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I heard the city bells at morning ring,
The eastern sky was faintly tinged with light;
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The warm sun kissed the earth
To consecrate thy birth,
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High on the lichened ledges, like
A lonely sea-fowl on its perch,
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When one with skillful fingers swift as wind
Swept to and fro along the glittering keys,
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In armor strong the fearless knight
At daybreak rode away,
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The starlight from one clear, bright star,
The moonlight, faint and white
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Did you send out a little white moth
On an errand to-night?
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To-day upon thy ruined walls
The flowers wave flags of truce,
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The long hill slope, the river's course,
The high tide sleeping there—
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