86
CRIMSON BUDS ARE ON THE MAPLE.
Crimson buds are on the maple,
Thrilling notes are in the air,
There is green upon the hillside—
There is beauty everywhere.
In the woods pale starry blossoms
Rise like spirits frail and fair.
From the fence the flash of blue wings
Gives the heart a sudden stir,
From the thicket by the wayside
What sweet melodies occur!
(O, the unseen hands that beckon
From the heart of days that were!)
All along the dreaming meadows
There are voices faint but clear,—
Wake, my heart, and listen, listen,
If perchance thou mayest hear
Wordless messages that carry
Only to the spirit ear.
