I sit and dream that I hear, as of yore, My Elmwood chimneys' deep-throated

roar ;

If much be gone, there is much remains;
By the embers of loss I count my gains,
You and yours with the best, till the
In the fanciful flame, as I toast my toes.
old hope glows

To send a child's armada of chips!
Instead of a fleet of broad-browed ships,
Instead of the great guns, tier on tier,
A freight of pebbles and grass-blades

sere!

"Well, maybe more love with the less gift goes,'

I growl, as, half moody, I toast my toes.

UNDER THE WILLOWS.

FRANK-HEARTED hostess of the field and wood,

Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree,

June is the pearl of our New England year.

Still a surprisal, though expected long, Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait,

Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back,

Then, from some southern ambush in the sky,

With one great gush of blossom storms the world.

A week ago the sparrow was divine; The bluebird, shifting his light load of song

From post to post along the cheerless fence,

Was as a rhymer ere the poet come; But now, O rapture! sunshine winged and voiced,

breath of the West

idly,

Like a dim fleet by starving men besieged,

Conjectured half, and half descried afar,

Helpless of wind, and seeming to slip

back