 | The high-top sweeting And Other Poems |  |
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APRIL AGAIN.
When snow lies deep on vale and plain,
And tempests sweep the shore and main,
How vain and empty seems the knowledge
That summer-time will come again!
And tempests sweep the shore and main,
How vain and empty seems the knowledge
That summer-time will come again!
The waiting wood stands gray and dim,
A waste of rigid trunk and limb,
With yet no hint of coming foliage,
Of springing flower, or warbler's hymn.
A waste of rigid trunk and limb,
With yet no hint of coming foliage,
Of springing flower, or warbler's hymn.
The shrouded garden gives no sign;
Faintly the pallid sunbeams shine,—
Chill smiles which have no vital meaning,
On barren shrub and leafless vine.
Faintly the pallid sunbeams shine,—
Chill smiles which have no vital meaning,
On barren shrub and leafless vine.
Not yet, along the last year's bed,
The fearless crocus lifts its head;
The snow lies deep, and growth and beauty
Have not yet risen from the dead
The fearless crocus lifts its head;
The snow lies deep, and growth and beauty
Have not yet risen from the dead
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Yet time will vivify it all;
To-day, by yonder trellised wall,
Amid a fruit-tree's naked branches
I heard the welcome bluebird's call.
To-day, by yonder trellised wall,
Amid a fruit-tree's naked branches
I heard the welcome bluebird's call.
What cared he, though beneath his eye
The snowy drifts lay wide and high?
He knew he wore, on neck and pinion,
The sapphire of the summer sky.
The snowy drifts lay wide and high?
He knew he wore, on neck and pinion,
The sapphire of the summer sky.
Unsleeping Nature never errs,
Nor once forgets what she defers;
The red buds greaten on the maples,
As in their veins the sweet blood stirs;
Nor once forgets what she defers;
The red buds greaten on the maples,
As in their veins the sweet blood stirs;
And toward the sun, which kindlier burns,
The earth, awaking, looks and yearns,
And still, as in all other Aprils,
The annual miracle returns.
The earth, awaking, looks and yearns,
And still, as in all other Aprils,
The annual miracle returns.
Dearer than summer's pageantry,
Or autumn's glow on land and sea,
Is spring's sweet time of hope and promise,
When all things fair are yet to be!
Or autumn's glow on land and sea,
Is spring's sweet time of hope and promise,
When all things fair are yet to be!
| The high-top sweeting And Other Poems | |