286
A gray day in april.
Limbs crossed and, head uplift—and steady eyes
Searching the gleamy distance.
It is good,
Good for the languid frame and restless spirit,
A day like this. Thought fades into a dream;
The jubilant music of creation's hymn,
Yearly renewed, sounds faint as if withdrawn
Into the skies, and the irregular pulses
Beat slow true time. Life, the wild wounded bird,
From circling sky-ward, earth-ward, sinks at last
Into the bloomy grass, so glad to rest
It scarcely feels the arrow in its side.
Searching the gleamy distance.
It is good,
Good for the languid frame and restless spirit,
A day like this. Thought fades into a dream;
The jubilant music of creation's hymn,
Yearly renewed, sounds faint as if withdrawn
Into the skies, and the irregular pulses
Beat slow true time. Life, the wild wounded bird,
From circling sky-ward, earth-ward, sinks at last
Into the bloomy grass, so glad to rest
It scarcely feels the arrow in its side.
