O THAT a nest, my mate! were once more ours,

Where we, by vain and barren change un-

tortured,

Could have grave friendships with wise trees

and flowers,

And live the great, green life of field and

orchard!

From the cold birthday of the daffodils,

Ev'n to that listening pause that is November,

O to confide in woods, confer with hills,

And then—then, to that palmland you

remember,

Fly swift, where seas that brook not Winter's

rule

Are one vast violet breaking into lilies

There where we spent our first strange wedded

Yule,

In the far, golden, fire-hearted Antilles.