[IN THE COOL OF THE DAY.]
I.
To him that hears the calling in the calm,
And, naked, feeds his soul at Wisdom's lip,
Bird, grove, and brook—God's voice in silver psalm—
Are like a secret honeycomb adrip.
II.
Remote in thought from every living thing,
Silent the sage without his threshold sate,
Pondering the mysteries of Gyges' ring,
Dreaming of timeless years and iron fate.
The whirr of sudden wings his ear awoke,—
A lark rose free in its grey singing robe.
"O miracle of life," in speech he broke,
"A bird is greater than the solid globe!"
III.
But yesterday I saw a hillside grove
Whose trunks were clad with lichens grey as frost;
At night a storm of rain and wind fierce drove,—
Each bole to-day in living green's embossed!
And so, I said, the clinging lives which make
Yearful and spectral those who yield them ruth,
Shall, when o'er these the night in storm doth break,
Wreathe them in freshness of immortal youth.