Have tasted in thy song to-day
The bitter-sweet red lees again.
To them in whose sad May-time thou
Sang’st comfort from thy maple bough,
To tinge the presaged dole with sweet,
O! prophet then, be prophet now
And paraclete!
That fateful May! The pregnant vernal night
Was throbbing with the first faint pangs of day,
The while with ordered urge toward life and light,