THE BOBOLINKS ARE SINGING.

Out of its fragrant heart of bloom,–– The bobolinks are singing! Out of its fragrant heart of bloom The apple-tree whispers to the room, “Why art thou but a nest of gloom, While the bobolinks are singing?” The two wan ghosts of the chamber there,–– The bobolinks are singing! The two wan ghosts of the chamber there Cease in the breath of the honeyed air, Sweep from the room and leave it bare, While the bobolinks are singing. Then with a breath so chill and slow,–– The bobolinks are singing! Then with a breath so chill and slow, It freezes the blossoms into snow, The haunted room makes answer low, While the bobolinks are singing. 111 “I know that in the meadow-land,–– The bobolinks are singing! I know that in the meadow-land The sorrowful, slender elm-trees stand, And the brook goes by on the other hand, While the bobolinks are singing. “But ever I see, in the brawling stream,–– The bobolinks are singing! But ever I see in the brawling stream A maiden drowned and floating dim, Under the water, like a dream, While the bobolinks are singing. “Buried, she lies in the meadow-land!–– The bobolinks are singing! Buried, she lies in the meadow-land, Under the sorrowful elms where they stand. Wind, blow over her soft and bland, While the bobolinks are singing. “O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing,–– The bobolinks are singing! O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing The farmer saw so heavily swing From the elm, one merry morn of spring, While the bobolinks were singing. 112 “O blow, and blow away the bloom,–– The bobolinks are singing! O blow, and blow away the bloom That sickens me in my heart of gloom, That sweetly sickens the haunted room, While the bobolinks are singing!”

113

PRELUDE.

(TO AN EARLY BOOK OF VERSE.)

In March the earliest bluebird came And caroled from the orchard-tree His little tremulous songs to me, And called upon the summer’s name, And made old summers in my heart All sweet with flower and sun again; So that I said, “O, not in vain Shall be thy lay of little art, “Though never summer sun may glow, Nor summer flower for thee may bloom; Though winter turn in sudden gloom, And drowse the stirring spring with snow”; And learned to trust, if I should call Upon the sacred name of Song, Though chill through March I languish long, And never feel the May at all, 114 Yet may I touch, in some who hear, The hearts, wherein old songs asleep Wait but the feeblest touch to leap In music sweet as summer air! I sing in March brief bluebird lays, And hope a May, and do not know: May be, the heaven is full of snow,–– May be, there open summer days.

115

THE MOVERS.