 | Poems |  |
197
LATTER SPRING.
The silent, silent, Sunday morning—
No noise of feet about the house;
You heard the cat's assiduous purring,
Or in the wall a flittering mouse.
No noise of feet about the house;
You heard the cat's assiduous purring,
Or in the wall a flittering mouse.
There, all alone, we sat together,
More hushed and still than only one;
The ghosts of pain and grief are silent:
There comes a time when words are done.
More hushed and still than only one;
The ghosts of pain and grief are silent:
There comes a time when words are done.
Lost in the rest that was not pleasure,
Gone back, as clouds that follow rain;
Forgetful, for the dreary moment,
Of life's delayed but sweetest gain;
Gone back, as clouds that follow rain;
Forgetful, for the dreary moment,
Of life's delayed but sweetest gain;
No various talk or fitful laughter,—
We did but linger and endure;
For after all the weary winter
One scarce can feel the spring secure.
We did but linger and endure;
For after all the weary winter
One scarce can feel the spring secure.
When suddenly, outside the window,
In the dull quiet of the lane,
There came a sound of tinkling voices,
As when the black-birds come again.
In the dull quiet of the lane,
There came a sound of tinkling voices,
As when the black-birds come again.
198
So sweet, so shrill, and yet so tiny,
So overflowed with life and bliss;
Such rosy blooms and songs together,
Such living scarlet lips to kiss!
So overflowed with life and bliss;
Such rosy blooms and songs together,
Such living scarlet lips to kiss!
We looked, for once, full at each other,
And laughed ourselves: “They're coming home!”
Like apple-blossoms on the branches,
Here in one flush our spring had come.
And laughed ourselves: “They're coming home!”
Like apple-blossoms on the branches,
Here in one flush our spring had come.
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