 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
217
SPRING.
Doves on the sunny eaves are cooing,
The chip-bird trills from the apple-tree,
Blossoms are bursting, and leaves renewing,
And the crocus darts up, the Spring to see.
The chip-bird trills from the apple-tree,
Blossoms are bursting, and leaves renewing,
And the crocus darts up, the Spring to see.
Spring has come with smile of blessing,
Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath
Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing,
And wakes from the winter's dream of death.
Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath
Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing,
And wakes from the winter's dream of death.
Spring has come! the rills as they glisten
Sing to the pebbles and greening grass,
Under the sward the violets listen,
And dream of the sky as they hear her pass.
Sing to the pebbles and greening grass,
Under the sward the violets listen,
And dream of the sky as they hear her pass.
Coyest of roses feel her coming,
Swelling their buds with a promise to her,
And the wild bee hears her, around them humming,
And booms about with a joyous stir.
Swelling their buds with a promise to her,
And the wild bee hears her, around them humming,
And booms about with a joyous stir.
Oaks, that the bark of a century covers,
Feel ye the spell as ye groan and sigh?
Say, does the spirit that round you hovers
Whisper of youth and love gone by?
Feel ye the spell as ye groan and sigh?
218
Whisper of youth and love gone by?
Windows are open; the pensive maiden
Leans o'er the sill with a wistful sigh,—
Her heart with tender longings o'erladen,
And a happy sadness she knows not why.
Leans o'er the sill with a wistful sigh,—
Her heart with tender longings o'erladen,
And a happy sadness she knows not why.
For we and the trees are brothers in nature;
We feel in our veins the season's thrill,
In hopes that reach to a higher stature,
In blind dim longings beyond our will,
We feel in our veins the season's thrill,
In hopes that reach to a higher stature,
In blind dim longings beyond our will,
Whence dost thou come, O joyous spirit?
From realms beyond this human ken,
To paint with beauty the earth we inherit,
And soften to love the hearts of men?
From realms beyond this human ken,
To paint with beauty the earth we inherit,
And soften to love the hearts of men?
Dear angel! that blowest with breath of gladness
The trump to waken the year in its grave,
Shall we not hear after death's deep sadness
A voice as tender to gladden and save?
The trump to waken the year in its grave,
Shall we not hear after death's deep sadness
A voice as tender to gladden and save?
Dost thou not sing a constant promise,
That joy shall follow that other voice,—
That nothing of good shall be taken from us,
But all who hear it shall rise to rejoice?
That joy shall follow that other voice,—
That nothing of good shall be taken from us,
But all who hear it shall rise to rejoice?
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |