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EASTER
I know the Summer fell asleep
Long weary months ago;
Heaped high above her grave I saw
The heavy winter snow;
Say, sparrow, then, what word you bring;
Is it her requiem you sing?
The meadow lark is mute, the wren
Forgets his late abode,
No throstle answering fluteth near,
Yet never prelude flowed
From ivied bosk or verdant slope
More brimming with delight and hope!
I, listening, seem to see the blooms
That were whilom so dear,
And voices loved and silent long
I, listening, seem to hear;
And longings in my breast confer,
And sweet, prophetic pulses stir.
"Thou lonely one," they seem to say,
"Lost Summer shall return;
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