The tears of the young who go their way, last a day But the grief is long of the old who stay.

The birds can fly, An' why can't I?

We are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog-come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentleman-mind your eye! Over the table,-look out for the lamp! The rogue is growing a little old Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank and starved together.

The birds can fly, an' why can't I? Must we give in, says he with a grin, That the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter 'n we be?

The birds can fly, an' why can't I? Must we give in, says he, with a grin, 'T the blackbird an' phoebe are smarter 'n we be? Jest fold our hands, an' see the swaller An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? ... Jest show me that! er prove 't that bat Hez got more brains thans's in my hat, An' I'll back down, an' not till then!

On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof It paves with pearl the garden-walk And lovingly around the tatter'd stalk And snivering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

For me the diamond dawns are set In rings of beauty.

Darius was clearly of the opinion That the air is also man's dominion, And that, with paddle or fins or pinion, We soon or late Shall navigate The azure, as now we sail the sea.

Not in rewards, but in the strength to strive, the blessing lies.

Of nothing comes nothing: springs rise not above Their source in the far-hidden heart of the mountains: Whence then have descended the Wisdom and Love That in man leap to light in intelligent fountains?

I keep some portion of my early gleam Brokenly bright, like moonbeams on a river, It lights my life, a far illusive dream, Moves as I move, and leads me on forever.

If you will observe, it doesn't take A man of giant mould to make A giant shadow on the wall And he who in our daily sight Seems but a figure mean and small, Outlined in Fame's illusive light, May stalk, a silhouette sublime, Across the canvas of his time.

Our days, our deeds, all we achieve or are, Lay folded in our infancy the things Of good or ill we choose while yet unborn.

The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin.