SPRING.


On, like a giant, stalketh the strong Wind,
Wrapping the clouds about him, close and dark,
Rifting Creation's soul, for rage is blind,--
No pity hath he for the Earth all stark,
Shivering beneath the loose and drifting snow,
A scanty shroud to hide the dead below.

Dead? There is life within the mother's breast--
So claspeth she her young ones to her heart;--
"The time will come--the time will come--rest! rest!
Let the mad greybeard to his North depart;
Earth shall arise and mock him in his grave--
Patience a little, let the dotard rave!"

The palsied boughs grew still--there came a pause,
And Nature's heart scarce beat for listening,
Gazing abroad from all the tempest-flaws,
With prayerful longing for the saviour Spring;
And when she heard Spring coming up the sky,
Earth rose and threw her shroud off joyfully.

Then she who once had wept like Niobe,
Beheld her children springing round her feet,