The wind is low now; even here,
Where all the breezes congregate,
The softest warbler need not fear
To linger with its downy mate;
And here where you have long’d to be
So many weeks and months with me,
Sit silently, or softly speak
Or sing some air of pensive mood,
Not loud enough to mar or break
This delicate solitude.
VII.
Are we not happy? Sun-lit air,
Soft colour, floods of dewy light,
A flowery perfume everywhere
Pour out their wealth for our delight;
Through dreary hours of snow and sleet
The hope of these wing’d winter’s feet;
We have them now! The very breath
Of Nature seems an altar-fire
That wakes the bright world’s heart from death
To satiate our desire!
VIII.
Sing to me, therefore, sing or speak!
Wake my dull heart to happiness;
Perchance my pulses are too weak
To stir with all this sweet excess!
Perhaps the sudden spring has come
Too soon, and found my spirit dumb!
Howe’er it be, my heart is cold,
No echo stirs within my brain,
To me, too suddenly grown old,
This beauty speaks in vain!
IX.
Why are you silent? Lo! to-day
It is not as it once hath been;
I cannot sit the old sweet way,
Absorbed, contented, and serene;
I cannot feel my heart rejoice,
I crave the comfort of your voice!
Speak, speak! remind me of the past!
Let my spent embers at your fire
Revive and kindle, till at last
Delight surpass desire!
X.
Yea! are you silent, only press
My hand, and turn your face away;
You wince, too, from the fierce caress
That April flings on us to-day?
O human heart, too weak to bear
The whole fulfilment of a prayer!
This sudden summer strikes us dumb;
The wild hope, realized, but scares!
The substances of dreams become
A burden unawares.