CHLODINE
We met one fresh June-morn, Chlodine,
Where two roads came together;
I'd travelled far through storm and rain,
And you, through pleasant weather.
I loved you for the light, Chlodine,
Of summer all around you,—
I loved you foil the sweet June-flowers,
Whose dewy garlands bound you!
You loved me not, Chlodine, because
The storms had beat upon me;
Because there was no breath of flowers,
No summer sunshine on me;—
You could not see, Chlodine, that deep
Within my soul were growing
Fresh flowers that evermore would keep
The fragrance of their blowing.
And so we parted—you and I—
Your ways all fresh and flowering;
Mine, rocky steeps up mountains high,
'Neath skies with tempests lowering;
And yet the sunshine spoilt your flowers,—
Mine, bitter grief-drops nourished,
And while yours withered day by day,
Mine bloomed the more, and flourished
And now we're met again, Chlodine,
You love me for my flowers,
Their perfume scenting all the air.
Like breath of Eden-bowers;—
I love you not, Chlodine, alas!
You're changed since those old mornings,
Your regal summer-robes are lost,
With all their rare adornings!
We stand together side by side,
And yet, at farthest, never,
Before stretched out so far and wide
The distance that did sever
Us, as to-day it does, Chlodine,
Though hand touch hand in greeting,
And never again shall we know, Chlodine,
Another June-day meeting.
THE BIRD AND THE STORM-CLOUD
Little bird, is that thy sphere,
Yonder threat'ning cloud so near?
Sunbeams blaze along its brow,
Yet what darkness reigns below!
There the sullen thunder mutt'ring,
Wrathful sounds is sternly utt'ring;—
There the red-eyed lightning gleameth,
Where no more the sunlight beameth,
And the strong wind, fiercely waking,
Wings of fearful might is taking;—
Creature of the calmer air,
Wherefore art thou soaring there?
Wert thou weary of the vale,
With its blossom-scented gale?—
Weary of thy breezy bowers?—
Weary of thy wild-wood flowers?—
Weary of thy wind-rocked nest
In the bright, green willow's breast?—
Didst thou sigh, on daring wing,
Up in heaven's blue depths to sing?—
Claim with storms companionship,
And in clouds thy free wings dip?—
And, where rushing winds are strong,
Pour thy melody of song?
Bird, thy wing is all too weak
Such adventurous heights to seek;
In the bower thou seem'dst to be
Trembling with timidity;
Now, with proud, unshrinking glance
Thou art daring yon expanse,
And, with wild, exultant singing,
Upward thy free flight art winging;—
Creature of the calmer air,
Wherefore art thou sporting there?