She stands there on the
tufted mound, the lilies
of the valley all about her,
surrounding her in
scented spring. Lovely, in
the hidden dale, in the
sweetly scented spring.

I love the way the thrush is
singing, down by the cold-water,
swift-water, streaming; its babbling
the thrush mistook, for laughing in
the madding way, that streams take on,
when lost in glee, in Summers gladding,
madding sway.

Grey dawns the morning cold; dew
gathers on the mould. while robins sing
in freshen voices, and water runs in the
swift-water way, in the mornings lovely
cold.

Autumn,
Summers dying,
leaves falling;
fire in the trees,
Herald of Winter.

Rain falling, soft in the misty dale;
the sun is hidden in the even of the
day. Violets and poppies, lilies and
lilacs, all fresh with the rain; life
bringing, cool in that time of the
colored evening. A wind is whistling
in the towering trees, setting the leaves
all to sighing, and the branches to
their sway, but naught of that but a fleeting
breeze comes down to rouse the nodding
blooms, and stir the grasses from their
stay. Night falls, with the winds dying,
and all is still in the sacred dell, save the
insects, and the rain, and a nightingale,
singing softly in refrain, poet sweet, in
the falling rain.

A glade in a wood,
gloaming in the
twilight. The scents
of nightflowers, subtle
and disturbing, contriving
to surround us in
heady confusion, as
we stumble through
paths enchanted, there,
in the shimmering
moonlight. There, as we
walk our ways, under
stars, under moon, in
the darkling gloom.

Love,

a childs sigh, soft in innocence.
the sun on the heads of the lilies
in the field, the wind in the trees.

Joy,

laughter, high in the morning, low
in the evening. Her hair in the sunset,
ablaze with reflected glory, her eyes,
shining in the light of suns dying; mien
of angels.

Sorrow,

sobs in the stillness of the deepest
night. eyes red rimmed in the
morning light. the sound of a lock
softly clicking; tears on the threshold.