SPRING.
From mountain top, and from the deep-voiced valley,
The snow-white mists are slowly upward wreathing:
Now floating wide, now hovering close, to dally
With sportive winds, around them lightly breathing,
Till, in the quickening Spring-shine through them creeping,
Their gloomy power dissolves in warmth and gladness;
While swift, new tides through Nature's heart-pulse sweeping.
Floods all her veins with a delicious madness.
Warmed into life, a world of bright shapes thronging—