 | Le Cahier Jaune |  |
45
THE BIRD-CHERRY.
Three days ago, and yonder sullen tree,
That shades the limit of my garden glade,
Was dense with leaf, and cast so sad a shade
There was no place for summer minstrelsy;
To-day it streams with lavish fragrance; see,
How close the milky spires of bloom are laid;
How short a space! To-morrow sees it fade,
And strips in snowy wreck its gallantry.
That shades the limit of my garden glade,
Was dense with leaf, and cast so sad a shade
There was no place for summer minstrelsy;
To-day it streams with lavish fragrance; see,
How close the milky spires of bloom are laid;
How short a space! To-morrow sees it fade,
And strips in snowy wreck its gallantry.
How near and yet how far! Not lingering,
Not making haste, our whirling planet runs;
Not mistress of herself the wilful spring,
But shares the punctual race of myriad suns.
And those imperious hands sustain, control
The faltering faith of this inconstant soul.
Not making haste, our whirling planet runs;
Not mistress of herself the wilful spring,
But shares the punctual race of myriad suns.
And those imperious hands sustain, control
The faltering faith of this inconstant soul.
Eton, 1892.
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