Old Angel Time, to weary whom you can,
The while my well-beloved child hath rest.”
THE FIRST SPRING DAY
(To A. E. S.)
We laid you fast in frozen clay
When Winter had enchained the land.
(Lad, was it but three weeks to-day?)
And now comes Springtime’s messenger with golden tidings in his hand.
A mist blows off the thawing earth,
And drips from every budding tree,