There's the gate on which I used to There my Mary blessed me with her

And a thousand flushing hues made And dances in the gloomy thicks with

Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried,

But turns in balm on the immortal side.

Mothers have passed it: fathers, children; men

Whose like we look not to behold again;

Women that smiled away their loving breath;

Soft is the travelling on the road to
death!

But guilt has passed it? men not fit to
die?
Oh, hush
- for He that made us all
is by!

Human we're all-all men, all born
of mothers;

In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will,
May's at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather, Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be
And find us in the fields together.

All our own selves in the worn-out shape of others;

ill-used brothers!

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing

And shining so round and low;

You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing,-
You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven
That God has hidden your face?

I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold!
O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!

O columbine, open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell?
O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it;
I will not steal them away;

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,

I am seven times one to-day.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
How many soever they be,

And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges
Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling

No magical sense conveys,

And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
The fortune of future days.

Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily,
While a boy listened alone;

Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily

All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,
And mine, they are yet to be;

No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover
You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather
Preparing her hoods of snow;

She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:
Oh! children take long to grow.

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer bide so late;

And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,
For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head;
"The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."