The Lake Shore Road.

'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun,         And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glow         To let the heavy-laden bees pass out.         A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom          Of shrub and fern and brake,         Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find          The coolness of the lake.         A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge,         And flings her tinted blossoms in the air;         The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine         Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol         Of white the elderberry shades her head         And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.         From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,         A bird flies with a call of love and joy          That wins an answer straight         From that brown thing of gladness on a bough,         Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,          The proud and watchful mate.         The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood,         With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox,          And lilies red and white;         The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems all          A garden of delight.