 | Poems |  |
36
A NEW VOICE.
The south-wind blows a wakeful blast,
The hot noon sunshine beams at last,
And something says,—“the past is past.”
The hot noon sunshine beams at last,
And something says,—“the past is past.”
Come, crocus, from the trodden clay!
Forgotten there for many a day,
Put on thy shining, gold array.
Forgotten there for many a day,
Put on thy shining, gold array.
There is no life for death and pain;
There is a new life for the brain
That hears the whispers of the rain.
There is a new life for the brain
That hears the whispers of the rain.
Dream, crocus, in thy bed of mould;
Feel dimly for thy crown of gold!
The fairy-tale shall yet be told.
Feel dimly for thy crown of gold!
The fairy-tale shall yet be told.
What if thy lips are cold with fear,
Thy white lids blanched with many a tear?
Awake! an echo wandereth here.
Thy white lids blanched with many a tear?
Awake! an echo wandereth here.
Awake, awake! I hear those calls,
Soft as the desert dew that falls
To stir the acacia's yellow balls.
Soft as the desert dew that falls
To stir the acacia's yellow balls.
37
Love, there is love! For thee too, Spring
Shall a new promise-anthem bring;
Thou art not a forgotten thing.
Shall a new promise-anthem bring;
Thou art not a forgotten thing.
The shadow of thy bridal veil,
The anguish of the nightingale,
Heaven's passion-fever, makes thee pale;
The anguish of the nightingale,
Heaven's passion-fever, makes thee pale;
Though not about thy blue-veined brows
They weave Sicilian orange-boughs;
For thine are all immortal vows.
They weave Sicilian orange-boughs;
For thine are all immortal vows.
The Spirit, sun-winged and divine,
That fills the earth-veins full of wine,
And shoots to heaven the bacchant vine,—
That fills the earth-veins full of wine,
And shoots to heaven the bacchant vine,—
The Spirit of all growth and power,
Whose breath informs the sleeping flower,
And speeds the Spring's triumphant hour,—
Whose breath informs the sleeping flower,
And speeds the Spring's triumphant hour,—
Creative, jubilant, serene,
Wearing to man a various mien,
Yet true as midnight's crescent queen,—
Wearing to man a various mien,
Yet true as midnight's crescent queen,—
Unknown of men, yet known to thee,—
Beyond a dim and dawn-lit sea,
That living Spirit stays for thee.
Beyond a dim and dawn-lit sea,
That living Spirit stays for thee.
Awake! arise! thy wings begin
To stir their slumberous plumes within:
Hark!—hear'st the bride-song stealing in?
To stir their slumberous plumes within:
Hark!—hear'st the bride-song stealing in?
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