 | Short poems for short people |  |
73
IN SICKNESS.
'T is sweet to know of clear, soft Spring's returning,
Though I must lie so still and play no more,—
Not mark the bounteous crocus-bushes burning,
Not mark the merry swallows flash and soar.
Though I must lie so still and play no more,—
Not mark the bounteous crocus-bushes burning,
Not mark the merry swallows flash and soar.
'T is sweet to think, although my room be darkened,
That heaven outside is rich with wooing sun,
And that the pure, shy blooms of May have hearkened
Heaven's beautiful persuasions, one by one.
That heaven outside is rich with wooing sun,
And that the pure, shy blooms of May have hearkened
Heaven's beautiful persuasions, one by one.
While often gleam the faces loved right dearly,
From shadow, and while gleam caressing hands,
This single joy is evident most clearly,
That Spring re-welcomes the delighted lands.
From shadow, and while gleam caressing hands,
This single joy is evident most clearly,
That Spring re-welcomes the delighted lands.
Yet they who will not let the perfumes find me,
Nor any glimmer of the altered air,
Remember too much glory would but blind me,
Are heedful what my poor weak frame can bear.
Nor any glimmer of the altered air,
Remember too much glory would but blind me,
Are heedful what my poor weak frame can bear.
Still, I take comfort. There are flowers blowing,
And there are flowers that will blow ere long.
Shall I not trust these latter wait my knowing,
And hide their loveliness till I am strong?
And there are flowers that will blow ere long.
Shall I not trust these latter wait my knowing,
And hide their loveliness till I am strong?
74
Or shall I only deem myself some flower
That cannot bloom, while its fond sisters call,
A little fearful, in this golden hour,
Lest it shall gain no grace to bloom at all?
That cannot bloom, while its fond sisters call,
A little fearful, in this golden hour,
Lest it shall gain no grace to bloom at all?
| Short poems for short people | |