Land and Sea

THE green land sings her song of praise
And drinks the wine of summer days;
From noon to noon, from dark to bright,
She blossoms over with delight;
Her daisies, that are dead to you,
To me are full of golden dew.
The blue sea lacks not anything,
That men can say or maiden sing;
But what it says itself, or sings,
Is but the thought the hearer brings, —
The maiden hears a wedding-glee,
The sailor what the wind will be.
Hiram Rich.