Spring, thou art but His smile
Of happiness in me, and sullen days
Of weariness shall fall when Spring is born
In winds of March and rains of April’s tears.
Methinks ’tis weariness of His that I,
His loved, should tarry o’er the task
And leave life’s golden sheaves unbound.
And, Night, thou too art mine, of Him.
Thy dim and veiled stars are but the eyes
Of Him that through the curtained mystery