A Fairwell
by Harriet Monroe

Good-bye!—no, do not grieve that it is over,
     The perfect hour;
That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover,
     Flits from the flower.
Grieve not—it is the law. Love will be flying—
     Yes, love and all.
Glad was the living—blessed be the dying.
     Let the leaves fall.

The Blue Ridge
by Harriet Monroe

Still and calm,
In purple robes of kings,
The low-lying mountains sleep at the edge of the world.
The forests cover them like mantles;
Day and night
Rise and fall over them like the wash of waves.
Asleep, they reign.
Silent, they say all.
Hush me, O slumbering mountains—
Send me dreams.

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