J. E. Stewart
Renascence
THERE is a stirring in the woods
Has not been heard these many Springs,
A pulsing eagerness as broods
The dawn about awaking things.
And signs are on the little hills
That take the sun while yet on high
The mighty peaks, whose grandeur fills
The noon, are muffled in the sky.
There is a murmur 'neath the noise
Of cities and the common crowd,
As though some elfin under-voice
Sang thro' the buzz and discord loud;
And songs above the red alarms
Of bitter War rise clear and free,
As in the cruel shock of arms
Trembled a sweet expectancy.
Once, in the days of barren Art,
When ebbed the tide of Beauty's pow'r,
Nature bestirred a poet's heart
To give the world a passioned hour;
And such an hour is trembling sure
O'er this our weary day and long,
To bring our sicken'd souls a cure
With a new ministry of Song.
Flanders, 1917.
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