 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
85
LOST DAYS.
For many tedious nights and days,
Within this dim imprisoning room,
My soul has groped amid the maze
Of weariness and pain and gloom—
Within this dim imprisoning room,
My soul has groped amid the maze
Of weariness and pain and gloom—
And as I look abroad again
On verdant hill, and heavy tree,
And furrowed field, and cultured plain,
It seems another world to me.
On verdant hill, and heavy tree,
And furrowed field, and cultured plain,
It seems another world to me.
For I have lost the fairest sight,
The dearest days of all the year—
The sweet beginnings of delight,
The summer's gradual drawing near;
The dearest days of all the year—
The sweet beginnings of delight,
The summer's gradual drawing near;
The new weeds pushing freshly up—
The eager growing of the grass—
The first ambitious buttercup—
The maple's morning red, alas—
The eager growing of the grass—
The first ambitious buttercup—
The maple's morning red, alas—
The first strong throbs of nature's heart,
When spring her vital magic weaves—
The bursting of the buds apart,
The crisp uncurling of the leaves.
When spring her vital magic weaves—
86
The crisp uncurling of the leaves.
'T is like a dream of pain and dread—
I closed my eyes in winter time,
And when once more I lift my head,
The spring is in its perfect prime.
I closed my eyes in winter time,
And when once more I lift my head,
The spring is in its perfect prime.
The wrens which fashion, every spring,
Their happy nest above my door,
Have taught their young to fly and sing,
As in all pleasant Mays before—
Their happy nest above my door,
Have taught their young to fly and sing,
As in all pleasant Mays before—
And I have lost their merry notes,
Their fearless questions and replies,
The tuning of their joyful throats,
The querying of their curious eyes.
Their fearless questions and replies,
The tuning of their joyful throats,
The querying of their curious eyes.
Along the walk the bushes sway
Heavy with roses ripe and fair—
The tall syringas all the day
Sweeten to faintness all the air;
Heavy with roses ripe and fair—
The tall syringas all the day
Sweeten to faintness all the air;
The full-blown clover's fragrance floods
The land with odor far and near—
Ah! I have lost the time of buds,
The dearest days in all the year!
The land with odor far and near—
Ah! I have lost the time of buds,
The dearest days in all the year!
| The silver bridge and other poems | |