Constance Fenimore Woolson Poems

Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away-
Gone to the country town, sir, to sell our first load of hay.
...

Our drift-wood fire burns drowsily,
The fog hangs low afar,
A thousand sea-birds fearlessly
Hover above the bar;
...

In tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming stars,
In floating, curling sprays,
The golden flower comes shining through the woods
...