University of Virginia Library

T is just the day to hear good news:
The pulses of the world are still;
The eager spring's unfolding hues
Are drowned in floods of sun, that fill
The golden air, and softly bear
Deep sleep and silence everywhere.
No ripple runs along that sea
Of warm, new grass, but all things wear
A hush of calm expectancy:
What is coming to Heart and me?

The idle clouds, that work their wills
In moods of shadow, on the hills;
The dusky hollows in the trees,
Veiled with their sunlit 'broideries;
The gate that has not swung, all day;
The dappled water's drowsy gleam;
The tap of hammers far away,
And distant voices, like a dream,—
All seem but visions, and a tone
Haunts them of tidings they refuse:
So, all the quiet afternoon,
Heart and I we sit alone,
Waiting for some good news.
Other days had life to spare,
Tasks to do, and men to meet,
Trifling wishes, bits of care,
A hundred ways for ready feet;
But this bright day is all so sweet,
So sweet, 't is sad in its content;
As if kind Nature, as she went
Her happy way, had paused a space,
Remembered us, and turned her face
As toward some protest of distress;
Waiting till we should find our place
In the wide world's happiness.
Nothing stirs but some vague scent,
A breath of hidden violet—
The lonely last of odors gone—
Still lingering from the morning dews,
As if it were the earth's regret
For other such bright days that went,
While Heart and I we sat alone,
Waiting for our good news.

What would you have for your good news,
Foolish Heart, O foolish Heart?
Some new freedom to abuse,
Some old trouble to depart?
Sudden flash of snowy wing
Out of yonder blue, to bring
Messages so long denied?
The old greeting at your side,
The old hunger satisfied?

Nay, the distant will not come;
To deaf ears all songs are dumb:
Silly Heart, O silly Heart!
From within joy must begin—
What could help the thing thou art?
Nothing draweth from afar,
The gods can give but what we are.
Heaven makes the mould, but soon and late
Man pours the metal—that is Fate.
We must speak the word we wait,
And give the gift we die to own.
Wake, O Heart! From us alone
Can come our best good news.