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PREFACE
All through my busy years of prose writing I have occasionally jotted down idle thoughts in rhyme. Imagining ideal scenes, ideal characters, and then, as is the way, I suppose, with more ambitious poets, trying to put myself inside the personalities I have invoked, trying to feel as they would be likely to, speak the words I fancied they would say.
The many faults of my verses I can see only too well; their merits, if they have any, I leave with the public--which has always been so kind to me--to discover.
And half-hopefully, half-fearfully, I send out the little craft on the wide sea strewn with so many wrecks. But thinking it must be safer from adverse winds because it carries so low a sail, and will cruise along so close to the shore and not try to sail out in the deep waters.
And so I bid the dear little wanderer , God-speed, and bon voyage.
Marietta Holley.
New York, June, 1887.
WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?
It is not the lark's clear tone Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry, Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night-- Not these alone Make the sweet sounds of summer; But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight-- These help to make the summer.
Not roses redly blown, Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads, Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare-- Not these alone Make the sweet sights of summer But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds And slender grasses, springing up everywhere-- These help to make the summer.
One heaven bends above; The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest; O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low, Is the same love, it is all God's summer; Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best, So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow, You help to make the summer.
THE BROTHERS.
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