In Paradise there is no sweeter song
Than that thin music that the robin makes
On short December afternoons, and takes
The winter woods, with utterance frail, yet strong;
Till all the barren fields, and ruined brakes,
The flowerless gardens, and the hedges bare
Dream of the spring, and all the rainy air
Seems soft and mellow as the summer lakes.
More precious than the treasures of the East,
(Guarded by silver-footed antelope,)
Or all the nightingales that haunt the grove
Of Persian gardens; silver pipe of hope!
That Nature gives us when her gifts are least,
Sing to our hearts, oh, little voice of love.
A JANUARY MORNING
How strangely shone the crescent of the moon
In the grey twilight dawning o'er the sea;
A star, that seemed of stars a memory,
(As faint as lilies on a sultry noon)
Ebbed in the chilly waxing of the morn;
The sea was rest in motion; hardly stirred
Its waves upon the beach; there was no bird
To break its undersong of silence born.
The misty shadows lay upon the trees,
Whose colour was but echo of the tone
That earth and sky were wrapped in, harmonies
Of wedded hue were visible alone,
—And over all a breath of memory blown,
Of other dawnings upon other seas.
FEBRUARY
Can there be aught to touch the sleeping dead
To consciousness; can love still call to love
Across that dark abyss; can feeling move
Dead heart and brain, that once with blood were fed,
To stir and quicken in their narrow bed,
For that which yet is living? We believe
Such force has love, that it may still retrieve
Its heart's Eurydice among the dead.
I shall awake, then, shall awake my soul—
Not when full summer beautifies the earth,
But with the first sweet stirring of the sap,
Ere yet the fields are green or leaves unroll:
I shall but sleep awhile in Nature's lap,
To be reborn with February's rebirth.