Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/181

On old gnarled trunks the fresh sap creeps;
And on the mossy rock up leaps
The cress as if it feared no wrong.

The ivy on the walls appears,
Walls that have lost their snowy crest;
No leaves as yet—the forest rears
Now only their bright pioneers,
Blossoms and sprouts by winds carest.

Water no longer dormant lies,
The torrent frozen long and fast
Trickles adown the hill, and tries
Freer to flow, like tears from eyes
Of mourners whose despair is past.

Birds! do not sing the golden morn,
The morn of blessed, blessed spring!
Flowers! haste not eager to be born!
Winter may yet have days forlorn;
In patience wait: the hour shall ring.

Thus, thus in age, when near our goal,
We feel from earth-ties almost free,
Away the vapours sometimes roll,
And spite its vision weak, the soul
Has glimpses of Eternity!

A faint reflection, far, obscure,
Of brighter suns,—a sparkle pale
From the life-fountain's column pure,
A vague dawn, but the herald sure
Of that bright Spring that shall not fail.