Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago,
And meditated in a mind sincere:—
"Beneath these snows shining from yon red west
How sleep the blooms of some delighted May,
And June shall riot, lovely as the best
That flung their odors forth on all their way:
Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,
Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air.
Her gentle colors"—sane December saith
"They come, they come—O heart, sigh not 'They were.'"