It only seems
One night of dreams;
Years they say; how do they plan it?
What's become of Little Janet?
Never mind;
She's good; she's kind;
Age can never bend or win her;
There's a heart of youth within her.
ON BEING ASKED FOR A SONG
CONCERNING THE DEDICATION OF A MOUNTAIN IN SAMOA TO THE MEMORY OF STEVENSON
A Letter to I. O. S.
But, friend of mine,—and his,—I am afraid!
How can I make a song
When the true song is made!
For this you say:
Because that Tusitala loved the birds,
They who named Tusitala (weaver of charmèd words—
Teller of Tales)
Have given his mountain to the birds forever!
There all day long
Bright-plumaged island-birds make gay the dales,
From off the sea the swift white bosun over the mountain sails,
From many a large-leaved tree
The gray dove cooes its low, insistent song.
From those green hights and vales
They shall be absent never—
To show what love can be from man to man.
Lovers of Birds and Poets—this is glory!
