[TO THE SPRING WIND]
Ah, what a changeling!
Yester you dashed from the west,
Altho' it is Spring,
And scattered the hail with maniac zest
Thro' the shivering corn—in scorn
For the labour of God and man.
And now from the plentiful South you haste,
With lovingest fingers,
To ruefully lift and wooingly fan
The lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk:
As if the chill waste
Of the earth's May-dreams,
The flowers so full of her joy,
Were not—as it seems—
A wanton attempt to destroy.
[THE RAMBLE]
Down the road
Which asters tangle,
Thro' the gap
Where green-briar twines,
By the path
Where dry leaves dangle
Down from the ivy vines,
We go—
By sedgy fallows
And along
The stifled brook,
Till it stops
In lushy mallows
Just at the bridge's crook.
Then, again,
O'er fence, thro' thicket,
To the mouth
Of the rough ravine—
Where the weird
Leaf-hidden cricket
Chirrs thro' the weirder green—
There's a way
O'er rocks—but quicker
Is the best
Of heart and foot,
As the beams
Above us flicker
Sun upon moss and root!
And we leap—
As wildness tingles
From the air
Into our blood—
With a cry
Thro' golden dingles
Hid in the heart of the wood.