A neighbor to the grass and flowers. A friend to all the skies, A lovely tree that dares to romp With every bird that flies.
A spruce, an elm, a tamarack; Dear heaven, how can there be A lovelier name, and how I wish They’d given one to me.
I have a longing for a hill A passion for small streams. And there’s a creek that winds itself Among my muted dreams.
A tumbling stream, you know the kind, With water running clear, Where birds might bathe between its songs And pilgrims hover near.
It twines itself, love-fashion, round A flowering tree, then worms-- And oozes in between the roots, Of sycamores and ferns.
Petals float down and mingle with Ribbons of grass while I Am conscious that I am dreaming, And writing while I sigh.
I like to visit Endie’s house She’s like a dream herself, She has the books I know and love Upon her reading shelf. And when I go to her we talk About the clouds and wind, And if I drop from clouds to clods Why; Endie doesn’t mind. I like the streams, the singing ones, But Endie likes a fall; And if I disagee with her She doesn’t mind at all.
Endie has a thousand things To plant in one small space; When I find it can’t be done Regret is in her face. She often says O! dare we plant, Narcissus in a row? But she agrees and I agree Where hollyhocks should grow. I only need to mention tea And Endie’s soft eyes shine. And then she talks; her language flows More eloquent than mine. Once ambition burned my breast Endie, too, was fired. But here is where I stop to rest For Endie’s getting tired.
We children played in a queer old street That persistently seemed to hide, Itself and us in a kindly way From the great wide world outside.
And how we loved in our childishness God’s work on the sea and land. But death was secretive, dark and deep, And never showed us his hand.
With awe we gazed on his work, sad work And the flutter of ribbons white, Made us all catch hands, hold our breath and sob In our restless dreams at night.
When a baby came to our queer old street So downy and vague and new, We tiptoed out of the soft, dark room, And the mystery grew and grew.
But many things we have learned since then For life has a strange sad way, We left the hills and the queer old street Where we used to shout and play.