A GRAY DAY IN APRIL.
O'erflowed by April mists, the April sun
Stands like a spot of silver on the sky,
And my pale shadow gliding at my side,
Scarce paints the ground. A doubtful radiance dwells
Over broad fields and round back-rolling hills;
The heaven is uniform gray, and from its edge
The bold firm pencilling of blue mountain tops
Is almost blurred away. The wind's long sigh,
Like the sea-Ariel's in his prison shell,
Stirs through the light-clad wood, and thither leads,
Edging the marsh, and loitering up the slope,
The footpath trodden through the grassy fields.
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,
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Yearly renewed, sounds faint as if withdrawn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.
Stands like a spot of silver on the sky,
And my pale shadow gliding at my side,
Scarce paints the ground. A doubtful radiance dwells
Over broad fields and round back-rolling hills;
The heaven is uniform gray, and from its edge
The bold firm pencilling of blue mountain tops
Is almost blurred away. The wind's long sigh,
Like the sea-Ariel's in his prison shell,
Stirs through the light-clad wood, and thither leads,
Edging the marsh, and loitering up the slope,
The footpath trodden through the grassy fields.
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,
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.