A spirit is treading the earth,
As wind treads the vibrating string;
I know thy feet so beautiful,
Thy punctual feet, O Spring!
They slide from far-off mountains,
As slides the untouched snow;
They move over deepening meadows,
As vague cloud-shadows blow.
Thou wilt not enter the chamber,
The door stands open in vain;
Thou art pluming the wands of cherry
To lattice the window pane.
Thou flushest the sunken orchard
With the lift of thy rosy wing;
The peach will not part with her sunrise
Though great noon-bells should ring.
O life, and light, and gladness,
Tumultuous everywhere!
O pain and benumbing sadness,
That brood in the heavy air!
Here the fire alone is busy,
And wastes, like the fever's heat,
The wood that enshrined past summers,
Past summers as bounteous as fleet.
The beautiful hanging gardens
That rocked in the morning wind,
And sheltered a dream of Faery,
And life so timid and kind,
The shady choir of the bobolink,
The race-course of squirrels gay,—
They are changed into trembling smoke-wreaths,
And a heap of ashes gray.