The yielding wood? And yet 'twas loth To yield unto our happy march; That strange mood seemed to draw a Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both cloud away, Could pass its green, elastic arch. We fly-still sways and swings around One scanty circle's starry bound. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! Ah, many a month those stars have shone, If but the wind holds, short the run: A FACE IN THE STREET. And many a golden morn has flown, POOR, withered face, that yet was Since that so solemn happy morn, O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust Thy star-like beauty, dimmed with earthly dust, Yet breathing of a purer native air; And, though so near we're drawing They who, whilom, cursed vultures, now, 'Tis farther off - I know not how 'Tis but a seeming; swiftly rush Patience, my mates! Though not sought a share Pipe the glad birds that in the forest dwell; Where hearths are set curled wreaths of vapor tell; Life's grace and promise win the soul again; Hope floods the heart like sunshine after rain. The wood is past, and tranquil meadows wide, Bathed in bright vapor, stretch on every side. A MARCH VIOLET. BLACK boughs against a pale clear sky, [From Scenes in the Wood. Suggested by Slight mists of cloud-wreaths floating Robert Schumann.] NIGHT. WHITE stars begin to prick the wan blue sky, The trees arise, thick, black and tall: between Their slim, dark boles, gray, filmwinged gnats that fly Against the failing western red are seen. The footpaths dumb with moss have lost their green. Mysterious shadows settle everywhere, A passionate murmur trembles in the air. by: Soft sunlight, gray-blue smoky air, Quick seedlings stir, rich juices flow seen On budding boughs a warm flush glows, With tints of purple and pale rose. Breathing of spring, the delicate air Lifts playfully the loosend hair Sweet scents wax richer, freshened To kiss the cool brow. Let us rest with cool dews, The whole vast forest seems to breathe, to sigh With rustle, hum and whisper that confuse The listening ear, blent with the fitful cry Of some belated bird. In the far sky, Throbbing with stars, there stirs a weird unrest, Strange joy, akin to pain, fulfils the breast A longing born of fears and promises, A wild desire, a hope that heeds no bound. A ray of moonlight struggling through the trees Startles us like a phantom; on the ground Fall curious shades; white glory spreads around; In this bright, sheltered nook, now blest With broad noon sunshine over all, Though here June's leafiest shadows fall. Young grass sprouts here. Look up! the sky Is veiled by woven greenery. Here, when November stripped the trees. I came to wrestle with a grief: I wondered why the Preacher saith, "Like as the grass that withereth.' The late, close blades still waved around; I clutched a handful from the ground. I lay dumb, sightless, deaf as she; She offered me: I could have laughed I rose and left. I knew each limb What blooms here, Through tears I see the nodding head, The purple and the green dispread. Here, where I nursed despair that morn, The promise of fresh joy is born, care. Longings and golden dreams to bring With joyous phantasies of spring. She is so wondrous fair Because mid grass they wave, But just because they shine, And not because they're nearer one Who never can be thine. Now, while thou lovest music's strains, Because they cheer thy heart, And not because from aching eyes They make the tear-drops start. Now, whilst thou lovest all on earth And deemest all will last, Before thy hope is vanished quite, And every joy has past; Remember Him, the only One, Before the days draw nigh When thou shalt have no joy in them. And praying, yearn to die. |