SPRING’S SECRETS

  As once I paused on poet wing
    In the green heart of a grove,
  I met the Spirit of the Spring
    With her great eyes lit of love.

  She took me gently by the hand
    And whispered in my wondering ear
  Secrets none may understand,
    Till she make their meaning clear;

  Why the primrose looks so pale,
    Why the rose is set with thorns;
  Why the magic nightingale
    Through the darkness mourns and mourns;

  How the angels, as they pass
    In their vesture pure and white
  O’er the shadowy garden grass,
    Touch the lilies into light;

  How their hidden hands upbear
    The fledgling throstle in the air,
  And lift the lowly lark on high,
    And hold him singing in the sky;

  What human hearts delight her most;
    The careless child with roses crowned,
  The mourner, knowing that his lost
    Shall in the Eternal Spring be found.

THE LORD’S LEISURE

  Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord! 
    Ever the wise upon Him wait;
    Early they sorrow, suffer late,
  Yet at the last have their reward.

  Shall then the very King sublime
    Keep thee and me in constant thought,
    Out of the countless names of naught
  Swept on the surging stream of time?

  Ah, but the glorious sun on high,
    Searching the sea, fold on fold,
    Gladdens with coronals of gold
  Each troubled billow heaving by.

  Though he remove him for a space,
    Though gloom resume the sleeping sea,
    Yet of his beams her dreams shall be,
  Yet shall his face renew her grace.

  Then when sorrow is outpoured,
    Pain chokes the channels of thy blood,
    Think upon the sun and the flood,
  Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord.

SPRING IS NOT DEAD

  Snow on the earth, though March is wellnigh over;
      Ice on the flood;
  Fingers of frost where late the hawthorn cover
      Burgeoned with bud. 
  Yet in the drift the patient primrose hiding,
  Yet in the stream the glittering troutlet gliding,
  Yet from the root the sap still upward springing,
  Yet overhead one faithful skylark singing,
      “Spring is not dead!”

  Brows fringed with snow, the furrowed brows of sorrow,
      Cheeks pale with care: 
  Pulses of pain that throb from night till morrow;
      Hearts of despair! 
  O, yet take comfort, still your joy approaches,
  Dark is the hour that on the dawn encroaches,
  April’s own smile shall yet succeed your sighing,
  April’s own voice set every song-bird crying,
      “Spring is not dead!”

AIM NOT TOO HIGH

(To an Old English air)

  Aim not too high at things beyond thy reach
  Nor give the rein to reckless thought or speech. 
  Is it not better all thy life to bide
  Lord of thyself than all the earth beside?