INTIMATION
As the sunlight finds the willow, whitening, trembling 'neath its dart,
As the young moon on the meadow,—so is springtime to the heart;
As the hush of tree-tops resting where the sky's red pulses start,
Ere a bud hath broken bondage,—so is springtime to the heart.
As the young moon on the meadow,—so is springtime to the heart;
As the hush of tree-tops resting where the sky's red pulses start,
Ere a bud hath broken bondage,—so is springtime to the heart.
Mystery of boughs that show not bud nor blow nor any leaf;
Twilight solitudes that know not if awaiting joy or grief,
Dream that wakes not lest the morrow hold of pain its keener part,
Bliss, whose sweetest depth is sorrow—such is April to the heart.
Twilight solitudes that know not if awaiting joy or grief,
Dream that wakes not lest the morrow hold of pain its keener part,
Bliss, whose sweetest depth is sorrow—such is April to the heart.
SONGS
Singers of yore, sweet poets of any clime,
Players and minstrels all, whose lips are dust,
From the white heritage we reap of time—
Hymns that smote flame from steel that now is rust,
Echoes blown down from an Arcadian hill
Or born of vigils tombed within that past,
Wrought of red hate or tuned to rapture's thrill,—
One strain outlives you, singing to the last;
We too, we too, one morn shall silent go,
The lute, the reed o'er which life's wind doth sweep,
And all our little day, its love and woe,
Cast forth, forgot if we did laugh or weep;
But singing hence some hour with passion rife
May live,—the soul of long forgotten strife.
Players and minstrels all, whose lips are dust,
From the white heritage we reap of time—
Hymns that smote flame from steel that now is rust,
Echoes blown down from an Arcadian hill
Or born of vigils tombed within that past,
Wrought of red hate or tuned to rapture's thrill,—
One strain outlives you, singing to the last;
We too, we too, one morn shall silent go,
The lute, the reed o'er which life's wind doth sweep,
And all our little day, its love and woe,
Cast forth, forgot if we did laugh or weep;
But singing hence some hour with passion rife
May live,—the soul of long forgotten strife.
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