When wild winds blew, and a sleet-storm pelted, I lost a jewel of priceless worth; If I walk that way when snows have melted, Will the gem gleam up from the bare brown Earth?
I laid a love that was dead or dying, For the year to bury and hide from sight; But out of a trance will it waken, crying, And push to my heart, like a leaf to the light?
Under the snow lie things so cherished - Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of men - Faces that vanished, and trusts that perished, Never to sparkle and glow again.
The Old Year greedily grasped his plunder, And covered it over and hurried away: Of the thousand things that he did, I wonder How many will rise at the call of May?
O wise Young Year, with your hands held under Your mantle of ermine, tell me, pray!
"LEUDEMANNS-ON-THE-RIVER."
Toward even, when the day leans down To kiss the upturned face of night, Out just beyond the loud-voiced town I know a spot of calm delight.
Like crimson arrows from a quiver The red rays pierce the waters flowing, While we go dreaming, singing, rowing To Leudemanns-on-the-River.
The hills, like some glad mocking-bird, Send back our laughter and our singing, While faint--and yet more faint is heard The steeple bells all sweetly ringing.
Some message did the winds deliver To each glad heart that August night, All heard, but all heard not aright, By Leudemanns-on-the-River.
Night falls as in some foreign clime, Between the hills that slope and rise.
So dusk the shades at landing-time, We could not see each other"s eyes.
We only saw the moonbeams quiver Far down upon the stream! that night The new moon gave but little light By Leudemanns-on-the-River.
How dusky were those paths that led Up from the river to the hall.
The tall trees branching overhead Invite the early shades that fall.
In all the glad blithe world, oh, never Were hearts more free from care than when We wandered through those walks, we ten, By Leudemanns-on-the-River.
So soon, so soon, the changes came.
This August day we two alone, On that same river, not the same, Dream of a night for ever flown.
Strange distances have come to sever The hearts that gaily beat in pleasure, Long miles we cannot cross or measure - From Leudemanns-on-the-River.
We"ll pluck two leaves, dear friend, to-day.
The green, the russet! seems it strange So soon, so soon, the leaves can change!
Ah me! so runs all life away.
This night-wind chills me, and I shiver; The Summer-time is almost past.
One more good-bye--perhaps the last To Leudemanns-on-the-River.
LITTLE BLUE HOOD
Every morning and every night There pa.s.ses our window near the street, A little girl with an eye so bright, And a cheek so round and a lip so sweet!
The daintiest, jauntiest little miss That ever any one longed to kiss,
She is neat as wax, and fresh to view, And her look is wholesome, and clean, and good.
Whatever her gown, her hood is blue, And so we call her our "Little Blue Hood,"
For we know not the name of the dear little la.s.s, But we call to each other to see her pa.s.s,
"Little Blue Hood is coming now!"
And we watch from the window while she goes by, She has such a bonny, smooth, white brow, And a fearless look in her long-lashed eye!
And a certain dignity wedded to grace Seems to envelop her form and face.
Every morning, in sun or rain, She walks by the window with sweet, grave air, And never guesses behind the pane We two are watching and thinking her fair; Lovingly watching her down the street, Dear little Blue Hood, bright and sweet.
Somebody ties that hood of blue Under the face so fair to see, Somebody loves her, beside we two, Somebody kisses her--why can"t we?
Dear Little Blue Hood fresh and fair, Are you glad we love you, or don"t you care?
NO SPRING
Up from the South come the birds that were banished, Frightened away by the presence of frost.
Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished, Back to the forest the leaves that were lost.
Over the hillside the carpet of splendour, Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again; Along the horizon, the tints that were tender, Lost hues of Summer-time, burn bright as then.
Only the mountains" high summits are h.o.a.ry, To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key.
Once more the gleaming sh.o.r.e lists to the story Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea.
All things revive that in Winter time perished, The rose buds again in the light o" the sun, All that was beautiful, all that was cherished, Sweet things and dear things and all things--save one.
Late, when the year and the roses were lying Low with the ruins of Summer and bloom, Down in the dust fell a love that was dying, And the snow piled over it, and made it a tomb.
Lo! now the roses are budded for blossom - Lo! now the Summer is risen again.
Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom?
Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?
Life without love is a year without Summer, Heart without love is a wood without song.
Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer: Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long?
Rise! ah, thou can"st not! the rose-tree that sheddest Its beautiful leaves, in the Springtime may bloom, But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest, Love buried once, rises not from the tomb.
Green things may grow on the hillside and heather, Birds seek the forest and build there and sing.
All things revive in the beautiful weather, But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.
MIDSUMMER
After the May time, and after the June time, Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet, Cometh the round world"s royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat.
When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.
Unto my heart has come that season, O my lady, my worshipped one, When over the stars of Pride and Reason Sails Love"s cloudless, noonday sun.
Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame.
It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.
The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide"s royal splendour, Droop like roses and wither away.
From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing, From the isle of pain no breeze is sent.
Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content.