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47
THE ALMOND BOUGH.
“The almond-tree shall flourish, and desire shall fail.”
—The Book of Ecclesiastes.
Written late in October.
The wild wind gathers and growsOn the moor and the darkening hill,
On the river comes and goes
And creeps a breath that is chill,
The moments weary and wound
No longer, all is still.
From the valley comes no sound,
No footstep along the lane,
No hand on the clinking gate,
No shadow falls on the pane;
I listen not, neither wait,
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I wish not, neither have will.
Written early in March, 1874.
But now through a lofty archThe light clouds drifting flee,
The wind is lifting the larch,
There is one that asketh for me:
He is winged with the wind, his feet
In the fire have ofttimes trod,
He is onwards borne by the sweet
Fulfilled desire of God;
When he moveth he moveth aright,
No shadow after him moves,
His eyes are with flame alight,
His smile is the smile that loves,
He is lithe, he is fleet, his hair
On his shoulders falleth free,
Than the sons of man more fair,
He bringeth a gift for me.
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It is soft, it is fair, it is frail,
And oft hath it met ere now
The scorn of the driving gale;
It weareth no shading leaf,
It beareth no grieving thorn,
Its blossom is swift and brief,
Its glory is in its morn;
It knoweth not how to wait,
It lifts to the bitter sky
Its rose-flush delicate,
It knows how to bloom and die;
Its fruit is not prized nor rare,
Yet it yieldeth a costly seed,
It is borne by a herald fair,
And it sayeth unto me “speed.”
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