 | Poems |  |
NOW.
The sweet, sad stir of Spring
Is in my heart and brain;
I hear once more the wild brooks pour
And the soft south wind complain.
Is in my heart and brain;
I hear once more the wild brooks pour
And the soft south wind complain.
96
Where all the hills were green
Is a brown and barren waste;
But Earth's fresh breath, that laughs at death,
Tells how the buds make haste.
Is a brown and barren waste;
But Earth's fresh breath, that laughs at death,
Tells how the buds make haste.
Through the gray and faded grass
The green blades rise to light,
And the wind that grieves in the sweet dead leaves
Is full of vague delight.
The green blades rise to light,
And the wind that grieves in the sweet dead leaves
Is full of vague delight.
Will ever a spring-time come,
In all Life's lingering time,
That will not make my heart awake
As it wakened in its prime?
In all Life's lingering time,
That will not make my heart awake
As it wakened in its prime?
Will all these weary days
So fill my soul with fears
That the wind's soft voice, when the woods rejoice,
Shall only bring me tears?
So fill my soul with fears
That the wind's soft voice, when the woods rejoice,
Shall only bring me tears?
Ah! never. The grass shall grow
Though a thousand winters pass;
And the soul's fresh youth with tender truth
Still spring to the springing grass.
Though a thousand winters pass;
And the soul's fresh youth with tender truth
Still spring to the springing grass.
| Poems | |