 | Poems |  |
217
NON SEQUITUR.
New, grassy scents, stir everywhere,
And soft the southern winds complain:
Are these slow dews dropped out of air?
And are they tears, or are they rain?
And soft the southern winds complain:
Are these slow dews dropped out of air?
And are they tears, or are they rain?
Some vague and sweet philosophy
With flattering love-lips made reply,—
“Is not the omen good to thee?
Both have their harvest by-and-by.”
With flattering love-lips made reply,—
“Is not the omen good to thee?
Both have their harvest by-and-by.”
Then answered my indignant heart—
“The rain is fresh, the rain is cold,
What wonder if the blossoms start
When God bestows it on the mould!
“The rain is fresh, the rain is cold,
What wonder if the blossoms start
When God bestows it on the mould!
“But hot and bitter tears of pain,
The wild result of desperate hours,
What harvests black of blasted grain
Should follow such unblessed showers?
The wild result of desperate hours,
What harvests black of blasted grain
Should follow such unblessed showers?
“Go to, sweet voice! leave men to lie.
The fond analogies you draw
Blazon their own futility,—
Who judges man by nature's law?”
The fond analogies you draw
Blazon their own futility,—
Who judges man by nature's law?”
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