Little laughter of the grass;
Clapping of soft, tiny hands;
Fleeting forms that come and pass
In relays of fairy bands;
And the birds upon the wing—
Tell the secret! It is Spring!
In the woods the dryades
Hear the sounding pipes of Pan,
Leave their temples of the trees
And return to haunts of man;
This the song they sweetly sing—
Ave! Ave! It is Spring!
Domed with sapphire is the sky;
Haze of opal hath the hills;
Brown the brooks that rushing by
Call to their companion rills;
These their joyous welcome bring—
Hail! All hail! For it is Spring!
A FALLEN ANGEL
Out of the light,
Into the night,
God, I am falling!
Fashioned of flame,
Spent with my shame,
God, I am calling!
All through the day
Sin has had sway—
Lost is the token;
Evening brings
Hurt of my wings,
Blackened and broken.
Child of a star,
Thine avatar,
Drunk from the revel;
Who am I, God,—
Spirit or clod,
Angel or devil?
Yet Thou hast made
Me Thy sword-blade—
Sheathed, that its brightness
Flash up to win,
When the last sin
Burns into whiteness.
Hand that can smite,
Hold the hilt tight,
Draw, and strike faster!
Strike with me, Lord!
My soul Thy sword,
And Thou its Master.