 | Poems |  |
144
AGAIN.
Come, gently breathing o'er the eager land,
With fresh green grass that springs to kiss thy feet
With little brooks that sparkle in the sand,
April's faint shining, clouds both soft and fleet,
All the fair things that do thine advent greet,
Flowers with their blue eyes still by snow-drifts wet,
South winds and flying showers; all, all, how sweet,
Could I forget!
With fresh green grass that springs to kiss thy feet
With little brooks that sparkle in the sand,
April's faint shining, clouds both soft and fleet,
All the fair things that do thine advent greet,
Flowers with their blue eyes still by snow-drifts wet,
South winds and flying showers; all, all, how sweet,
Could I forget!
Spill from thy white hands all the tender buds,
An opal mist in every gray old tree;
Pour from thine urn the rushing silver floods
That leap, and dance, and struggle to be free;
Coax the pink May-blooms to look up at thee,
Fearless of stormy wind or frosts that fret;
Enchantress, bring not back the past to me,
Let me forget!
An opal mist in every gray old tree;
Pour from thine urn the rushing silver floods
That leap, and dance, and struggle to be free;
Coax the pink May-blooms to look up at thee,
Fearless of stormy wind or frosts that fret;
Enchantress, bring not back the past to me,
Let me forget!
Alas! when all thy spells but hide a sting,
When the wild blossoms in each fragile bell
A lurking drop of bitter honey bring,
When hills and forests one worn story tell,
When through the birds' new warble sounds a knell,
When grief and sweetness are in all things met,
When winds repeat those voices loved too well,
Can I forget?
When the wild blossoms in each fragile bell
A lurking drop of bitter honey bring,
When hills and forests one worn story tell,
When through the birds' new warble sounds a knell,
When grief and sweetness are in all things met,
When winds repeat those voices loved too well,
Can I forget?
145
Poor pangs of earth! I know there comes a day,
Not far nor late, when God's restoring Spring
Shall set aside these miracles of clay,
And His serene immortal Summer bring,
Wherein I shall not pine for anything,
Not mortal love, nor loss, nor weak regret,
But at His feet my grateful rapture sing,
And so forget!
Not far nor late, when God's restoring Spring
Shall set aside these miracles of clay,
And His serene immortal Summer bring,
Wherein I shall not pine for anything,
Not mortal love, nor loss, nor weak regret,
But at His feet my grateful rapture sing,
And so forget!
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