The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon

Fairies, Arouse! Mix With Your Song Harplet And Pipe, Thrilling And Clear, Swarm On The Boughs! Chant In A Throng! Morning Is Ripe, Waiting To Hear.

Before A Day Was Over, Home Comes The Rover, For Mother's Kiss - Sweeter This Than Any Other Thing!

If Any Foes Of Mine Are There, I Pardon Every One: I Hope That Man And Womankind Will Do The Same By Me.

Not Like Homer Would I Write, Not Like Dante If I Might, Not Like Shakespeare At His Best, Not Like Goethe Or The Rest, Like Myself, However Small, Like Myself, Or Not At All.

O Spirit Of The Summertime! Bring Back The Roses To The Dells; The Swallow From Her Distant Clime, The Honey-bee From Drowsy Cells. Bring Back The Friendship Of The Sun; The Gilded Evenings, Calm And Late, When Merry Children Homeward Run, And Peeping Stars Bid Lovers Wait. Bring Back The Singing; And The Scent Of Meadowlands At Dewy Prime;- Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summertime!