 | Carol and Cadence |  |
COUNTERPARTS.
I.
When the Spring is in the bud
And the sap is in the spray,
When the young year's flowering blood
Runs in rapture night and day
And a-carol's every wood
With the promise of the Prime,
I know not whence it cometh, in the middle-sweets of May,
But my soul is sick bytime
With a sickness of dismay.
And the sap is in the spray,
When the young year's flowering blood
Runs in rapture night and day
And a-carol's every wood
With the promise of the Prime,
I know not whence it cometh, in the middle-sweets of May,
But my soul is sick bytime
With a sickness of dismay.
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It may be that they mind me,
With their bird-song and their bloom,
Of the Springs that are behind me,
In the silence of the tomb,
Of the years that have consigned me
To the close of Sad Content:
It may be, nay, it must be, that the sadnesses which bind me,
In the time of song and scent,
Are from memory's treasure-room.
With their bird-song and their bloom,
Of the Springs that are behind me,
In the silence of the tomb,
Of the years that have consigned me
To the close of Sad Content:
It may be, nay, it must be, that the sadnesses which bind me,
In the time of song and scent,
Are from memory's treasure-room.
II.
When the brakes are brown
And the underwood is sere,
When the leaves drop down,
When the fields are blank and drear
And the heavens are all a-frown
For the waning of the year,
I know not what the portent is for pleasance or for fear,
But my soul is oft astir
With a strange and subtle cheer.
And the underwood is sere,
When the leaves drop down,
When the fields are blank and drear
And the heavens are all a-frown
For the waning of the year,
I know not what the portent is for pleasance or for fear,
But my soul is oft astir
With a strange and subtle cheer.
It may be that it cometh
Of the thought of life in death,
Of the tune the ruddock hummeth,
Of the word the spicy breath
Of the dying leaves that summeth,
“Life must die to live again.”
It may be, nay, it must be, that the heart in me becometh
Stirred to solace out of pain,
Out of death that life foresaith.
Of the thought of life in death,
Of the tune the ruddock hummeth,
Of the word the spicy breath
Of the dying leaves that summeth,
“Life must die to live again.”
It may be, nay, it must be, that the heart in me becometh
Stirred to solace out of pain,
Out of death that life foresaith.
| Carol and Cadence | |