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126
WINTER-GREEN.
To-day the winter woods are wet,
And chill with airs that miss the sun;
The autumn of the year is done,
Its leaves all fallen, its flower-stars set,
Its frosty hours begun.
And chill with airs that miss the sun;
The autumn of the year is done,
Its leaves all fallen, its flower-stars set,
Its frosty hours begun.
Should last year's gold narcissus yearn
For next year's roses, oh! how vain!
No brief dead flowers arise again,
But each sweet little life in turn
Must shoot and bloom and wane.
For next year's roses, oh! how vain!
No brief dead flowers arise again,
But each sweet little life in turn
Must shoot and bloom and wane.
127
Sweet, had the years that slip so fast
Brought you too soon, or me too late,
How had we gnashed our teeth at fate,
And wandered down to death at last,
Forlorn, disconsolate!
Brought you too soon, or me too late,
How had we gnashed our teeth at fate,
And wandered down to death at last,
Forlorn, disconsolate!
Surely before the stars were sure,
Before the moon was set in heaven,
Your unborn soul to mine was given,
Your clear white spirit, rare and pure,
For me was formed and shriven.
Before the moon was set in heaven,
Your unborn soul to mine was given,
Your clear white spirit, rare and pure,
For me was formed and shriven.
Ah! surely no time ever was
When we were not; and our soul's light
Made those cold spaces infinite
That lie between the years like glass,
Seen only in God's sight!
When we were not; and our soul's light
Made those cold spaces infinite
That lie between the years like glass,
Seen only in God's sight!
128
Howe'er it be, my one desire,
If chance has brought us face to face,
Or if the scheme of things found place
To store our twin hearts' light and fire
In strange foreseeing grace,—
If chance has brought us face to face,
Or if the scheme of things found place
To store our twin hearts' light and fire
In strange foreseeing grace,—
Howe'er it be, for us at least,
The woodland-pathways are not dark,
New lights are on the boughs and bark,
And in the sunless rainshot east,
We hear a mounting lark!
The woodland-pathways are not dark,
New lights are on the boughs and bark,
And in the sunless rainshot east,
We hear a mounting lark!
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