A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass. Lowell Amy

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      It winds along the face of a cliff

       This path which I long to explore,

       And over it dashes a waterfall,

       And the air is full of the roar

       And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep

       In a silver torrent over some steep.

       It clears the path with a mighty bound

       And tumbles below and away,

       And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks

       Are wet with its jewelled spray;

       The air is misty and heavy with sound,

       And small, wet wildflowers star the ground.

       Oh! The dampness is very good to smell,

       And the path is soft to tread,

       And beyond the fall it winds up and on,

       While little streamlets thread

       Their own meandering way down the hill

       Each singing its own little song, until

       I forget that 't is only a pictured path,

       And I hear the water and wind,

       And look through the mist, and strain my eyes

       To see what there is behind;

       For it must lead to a happy land,

       This little path by a waterfall spanned.

Song

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      Oh! To be a flower

       Nodding in the sun,

       Bending, then upspringing

       As the breezes run;

       Holding up

       A scent-brimmed cup,

       Full of summer's fragrance to the summer sun.

       Oh! To be a butterfly

       Still, upon a flower,

       Winking with its painted wings,

       Happy in the hour.

       Blossoms hold

       Mines of gold

       Deep within the farthest heart of each chaliced flower.

       Oh! To be a cloud

       Blowing through the blue,

       Shadowing the mountains,

       Rushing loudly through

       Valleys deep

       Where torrents keep

       Always their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue.

       Oh! To be a wave

       Splintering on the sand,

       Drawing back, but leaving

       Lingeringly the land.

       Rainbow light

       Flashes bright

       Telling tales of coral caves half hid in yellow sand.

       Soon they die, the flowers;

       Insects live a day;

       Clouds dissolve in showers;

       Only waves at play

       Last forever.

       Shall endeavor

       Make a sea of purpose mightier than we dream to-day?