A NEW VOICE.
The south-wind blows a wakeful blast,
The hot noon sunshine beams at last,
And something says,—"the past is past."
The hot noon sunshine beams at last,
And something says,—"the past is past."
Come, crocus, from the trodden clay!
Forgotten there for many a day,
Put on thy shining, gold array.
Forgotten there for many a day,
Put on thy shining, gold array.
There is no life for death and pain;
There is a new life for the brain
That hears the whispers of the rain.
There is a new life for the brain
That hears the whispers of the rain.
Dream, crocus, in thy bed of mould;
Feel dimly for thy crown of gold!
Thy fairy-tale shall yet be told.
Feel dimly for thy crown of gold!
Thy fairy-tale shall yet be told.
What if thy lips are cold with fear,
Thy white lids blanched with many a tear?
Awake! an echo wandereth here.
Thy white lids blanched with many a tear?
Awake! an echo wandereth here.
