Art thou the topmost apple The gatherers could reach, Reddening on the bough? Shall I not take thee?
Translation of Sappho, 53.
Here's to the day when it is MayAnd care as light as a feather,When your little shoes and my big bootsGo tramping over the heather.Bliss Carman
Here’s to the dayThat wondrous May,A-roaming through the heather,When her little shoesAnd my big bootsWere out on the hills together.And here’s to the nightOf our delight,That held the stars in tether,When her little shoesAnd my big bootsWere under the bed together.Bliss Carman
There paused to shut the doorA fellow called the Wind,With mystery before,And reticence behind.Bliss Carman
The glad indomitable sea,The strong white sun.Bliss Carman
The greatest joy in nature is the absence of man.Bliss Carman
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir. We must rise and follow her, when from every hill of flame she calls, and calls each vagabond by name.Bliss Carman
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry, Of bugles going by.Bliss Carman
Art thou a hyacinth blossom The shepherds upon the hills Have trodden into the ground? Shall I not lift thee?Bliss Carman