and noisy with the endless rolling of carriages in the streets,
opened wide. I dreamed myself among my hills,—
the dear forest hills which an April-time youth was reflowering.
A stream gushed down the hillside, widening into a brook
with murmuring cool, and along the brook wandered my mother,
still in the flower of her youth, and leading a child by the hand.
On his bare white shoulder lay shining his golden curls.
He walked with a childish step, but stately, too,
proud of the mother's love, and thrilled to the heart
with the great gladness of that Festival