So in their rapid fury mountain torrents
That hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep,
Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot—
Here in the vale are bound in the old currents,
To stream in future calm and clear and deep!
TOLSTOY.
IN HOURS OF EBBING TIDE
In hours of ebbing tide, oh trust not to the Sea!
It will come back to shore with redness of the morrow;
O don't believe in me when in the trance of sorrow
I swear I am no longer true to thee!
The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy,
From far away, with joy, to the belovéd shore;
And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more,
Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee!
TOLSTOY.
SWANS
White Swans, ye harbingers of Spring, a greeting fond from me!
Rejoicing thrills within the breast of Mother Earth anew—
From her once more the flowers push forth 'mid gleaming drops of dew,
And like the Swans, across my soul my dreams will lightly sweep,
And my heart blissful throbbing, ghostly tears of rapture weep.
O Spring I feel thy coming! And behold Thee, Poesy!