ON THE EVE
G. GALIN
The Frost has not yet lifted his eyes from off the fields,
The forests still stand meek and mute—all leafless are their bowers;
And yet methinks I feel the earth already thrill and throb
Unsteadily and softly with the springing of the flowers.
The traces of chill, gloomy tears have not yet dried away,
The song of grief and suffering has not died upon the air,
Yet in my heart there swells again, sweet as the breath of spring,
The music of a joyous hope, a dream most glad and fair.