A gray day in april.
285
Spring flowers are up—the numb life that hath lain
Under the brown leaves like a chrysalis,
Is suddenly free. The long wood aisles are bright
With the anemone, that sylvan star
Hung in the dawn of Spring. The fern leaves still
Curl to their stalk, but in the open fields
The violet buds are blue. Later will come
The alder, hedging with its summer snow
Roadside and runlet; by the meadow marsh
High banks of reddening laurel. Last of all
The tall field flower that at the door of Autumn
Knocks with its golden wand.
All still—how still!
Along the hollows float slow waifs of sound,
Echoes of echoes! For the careless wind
Drops half his freight of melody, and brings
Of the bird's song a note, and leaves behind
The brook's full music, and imperfectly
Conveys the laughter and linked voices blown
This way across the fields, from noisy groups
Bound to their hill-side school.
My dog lies near,
Under the brown leaves like a chrysalis,
Is suddenly free. The long wood aisles are bright
With the anemone, that sylvan star
Hung in the dawn of Spring. The fern leaves still
Curl to their stalk, but in the open fields
The violet buds are blue. Later will come
The alder, hedging with its summer snow
Roadside and runlet; by the meadow marsh
High banks of reddening laurel. Last of all
The tall field flower that at the door of Autumn
Knocks with its golden wand.
All still—how still!
Along the hollows float slow waifs of sound,
Echoes of echoes! For the careless wind
Drops half his freight of melody, and brings
Of the bird's song a note, and leaves behind
The brook's full music, and imperfectly
Conveys the laughter and linked voices blown
This way across the fields, from noisy groups
Bound to their hill-side school.
My dog lies near,
