But now this June-like day of March With patient strength their branches arch, Not as unmindful of the breeze That makes midsummer melodies, But knowing Spring a fickle maid, And that rough days must dawn and fade Before, all blossoming bright, they stand In sight of Summer’s Promised Land.
The blind man at his window bars Stands in the morning dewy dim; The lily-footed dawn, the stars That wait for it, are naught to him.
And naught to his unseeing eyes The brownness of a sunny plain, Where worn and drowsy August lies, And wakens but to sleep again.
And naught to him a greening slope, That yearns up to the heights above, And naught the leaves of May, that ope As softly as the eyes of love.
And naught to him the branching aisles, Athrong with woodland worshippers, And naught the fields where summer smiles Among her sunburned laborers.
The way a trailing streamlet goes, The barefoot grasses on its brim, The dew a flower cup o’erflows With silent joy, are hid from him. To him no breath of nature calls; Upon his desk his work is laid; He looks up at the dingy walls, And listens to the voice of Trade.
Old playmate, showering the way With thick leaf storms in red and gold, I’m only six years old to-day, You’ve made me feel but six years old. In yellow gown and scarlet hood I whirled, a leaf among the rest, Or lay within the thinning wood, And played that you were Red-of-breast.
Old comrade, lift me up again; Your arms are strong, your feet are swift, And bear me lightly down the lane Through all the leaves that drift and drift, And out into the twilight wood, And lay me softly down to rest, And cover me just as you would If you were really Red-of-breast.
The sky’s great curtains downward steal, The earth’s fair company Of trees and streams and meadows feel A sense of privacy.
Upon the vast expanse of heat Light-footed breezes pace; To waves of gold they tread the wheat, They lift the sunflower’s face.
The cruel sun is blotted out, The west is black with rain, The drooping leaves in mingled doubt And hope look up again.
The weeds and grass on tiptoe stand, A strange exultant thrill Prepares the dazed uncertain land For the wild tempest’s will.
The wind grows big and breathes aloud As it runs hurrying past; At one sharp blow the thunder-cloud Lets loose the furious blast. The earth is beaten, drenched and drowned, The elements go mad; Swift streams of joy flow o’er the ground, And all the leaves are glad.