The violet there, in soft May dew, Floats the scarce-rooted watercress: Thou changest not-but I am changed, Has scarce a single trace of him The colouring of romance it wore. Yet well has Nature kept the truth She promised to my earliest youth. A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold And I shall sleep-and on thy side, But thou, unchanged from year to year, And, singing down thy narrow glen, Shalt mock the fading race of men. MARCH. THE stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies. I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies. Ah, passing few are they who speak, For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. And, in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May. H Then sing aloud the gushing rills And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea. The year's departing beauty hides Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies. And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. SONNET TO Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. |