Back downward to the world I go, Filled with the glory of earth’s light; No demon dread can overthrow, No dreams of evil e’er affright: To battle with my fate I go, Across the days of strife and woe.
No frosts of wintry age can chill, No deeps of midnight swirl me down; The fires of Spring my being thrill, The dreams of morning fence me round: By blue, blue brooks that never chill, I climb for aye a summer hill.
I climb and listen to a song, Sung by a bird at Summer’s dawn, A song that holds no note of wrong, Dreamed from the world where love hath gone: I listen, listen till that song, Like God’s voice, makes the years more strong.
AN OCTOBER EVENING.
The woods are haggard and lonely, The skies are hooded for snow, The moon is cold in Heaven, And the grasses are sere below.
The bearded swamps are breathing A mist from meres afar, And grimly the Great Bear circles Under the pale Pole Star.
There is never a voice in Heaven, Nor ever a sound on earth, Where the spectres of winter are rising Over the night’s wan girth.
There is slumber and death in the silence, There is hate in the winds so keen; And the flash of the north’s great sword-blade Circles its cruel sheen.