the heart speaks.
Bring me the gold of gorses from the hills;
The blooms that cluster thick upon the thorn;
The marybuds that blow by meadow rills;
The clover, rosy as the blush of morn.
Scatter thy gifts, O Spring, with lavish hand,
Thy precious gifts of sunlight, song, and dew!
Send the bird-voices thrilling through the land;
Dress the bare woods in leafage green and new.
Call back the swallows to their haunts again;
Bring the white sails across a placid sea;
Bid the young corn spring up in sun and rain,
And let but one small joy arise for me!
For me — for I have lost so many things
While the grim Winter reared his icy throne.
Old hopes, old dreams, the gleam of silver wings,
Passed from my life, and left me dark and lone.
spring speaks.
Tothee, poor heart, I come with empty hands,
Mine are but blossoms born of sun and showers;
The hopes thou seekest grow not on my lands,
And thy dead loves revive not with my flowers.
Turn thee to other souls, more sad than thine,
Into their darkness bring the light of day;
Lead them forth gently into paths divine,
And thou shalt find a blessing on the way.
A blessing that shall live when daisies die;
A bliss that fades not when the sere leaves fall;
A new joy, fairer than the joys gone by,
And for its sake thou wilt forget them all.