THE SEASONS.

Katharine Lee Bates.

The maple buds are red, are red,The robin’s call is sweet;The blue sky floats above thy head,The violets kiss thy feet.The sun paints emeralds on the sprayAnd sapphires on the lake;A million wings unfold to-day,A million flowers awake.Their starry cups the cowslips liftTo catch the golden light,And like a spirit fresh from shriftThe cherry tree is white.The innocent looks up with eyesThat know no deeper shadeThan falls from wings of butterfliesToo fair to make afraid.With long, green raiment blown and wetThe willows, hand in hand,Lean low to teach the rivuletWhat trees may understandOf murmurous tune and idle dance,With broken rhymes whose flowA poet’s ear shall catch, perchance,A score of miles below.Across the sky to fairy realmThere sails a cloud-born ship;A wind sprite standeth at the helm,With laughter on his lip;The melting masts are tipped with gold,The ’broidered pennons stream;The vessel beareth in her holdThe lading of a dream.It is the hour to rend thy chains,The blossom time of souls;Yield all the rest to cares and pains,To-day delight controls.Gird on thy glory and thy pride,For growth is of the sun;Expand thy wings whate’er betide,The Summer is begun.

The maple buds are red, are red,

The robin’s call is sweet;

The blue sky floats above thy head,

The violets kiss thy feet.

The sun paints emeralds on the spray

And sapphires on the lake;

A million wings unfold to-day,

A million flowers awake.

Their starry cups the cowslips liftTo catch the golden light,And like a spirit fresh from shriftThe cherry tree is white.The innocent looks up with eyesThat know no deeper shadeThan falls from wings of butterfliesToo fair to make afraid.

Their starry cups the cowslips lift

To catch the golden light,

And like a spirit fresh from shrift

The cherry tree is white.

The innocent looks up with eyes

That know no deeper shade

Than falls from wings of butterflies

Too fair to make afraid.

With long, green raiment blown and wetThe willows, hand in hand,Lean low to teach the rivuletWhat trees may understandOf murmurous tune and idle dance,With broken rhymes whose flowA poet’s ear shall catch, perchance,A score of miles below.

With long, green raiment blown and wet

The willows, hand in hand,

Lean low to teach the rivulet

What trees may understand

Of murmurous tune and idle dance,

With broken rhymes whose flow

A poet’s ear shall catch, perchance,

A score of miles below.

Across the sky to fairy realmThere sails a cloud-born ship;A wind sprite standeth at the helm,With laughter on his lip;The melting masts are tipped with gold,The ’broidered pennons stream;The vessel beareth in her holdThe lading of a dream.

Across the sky to fairy realm

There sails a cloud-born ship;

A wind sprite standeth at the helm,

With laughter on his lip;

The melting masts are tipped with gold,

The ’broidered pennons stream;

The vessel beareth in her hold

The lading of a dream.

It is the hour to rend thy chains,The blossom time of souls;Yield all the rest to cares and pains,To-day delight controls.Gird on thy glory and thy pride,For growth is of the sun;Expand thy wings whate’er betide,The Summer is begun.

It is the hour to rend thy chains,

The blossom time of souls;

Yield all the rest to cares and pains,

To-day delight controls.

Gird on thy glory and thy pride,

For growth is of the sun;

Expand thy wings whate’er betide,

The Summer is begun.

Alfred Tennyson.

I.Once more the Heavenly PowerMakes all things new,And domes the red-plowed hillsWith loving blue;The blackbirds have their wills,The throstles too.II.Opens a door in HeavenFrom skies of glass;A Jacob’s-ladder fallsOn greening grass,And o’er the mountain-wallsYoung angels pass.III.Before them fleets the shower,And burst the buds,And shine the level lands,And flash the floods;The stars are from their handsFlung through the woods.IV.O follow, leaping blood,The season’s lure!O heart, look down and up,Serene, secure,Warm as the crocus-cup,Like snow-drops, pure!V.For now the Heavenly PowerMakes all things new,And thaws the cold and fillsThe flower with dew;The blackbirds have their wills,The poets too.Youth’s Companion.

Once more the Heavenly PowerMakes all things new,And domes the red-plowed hillsWith loving blue;The blackbirds have their wills,The throstles too.

Once more the Heavenly Power

Makes all things new,

And domes the red-plowed hills

With loving blue;

The blackbirds have their wills,

The throstles too.

II.

Opens a door in HeavenFrom skies of glass;A Jacob’s-ladder fallsOn greening grass,And o’er the mountain-wallsYoung angels pass.

Opens a door in Heaven

From skies of glass;

A Jacob’s-ladder falls

On greening grass,

And o’er the mountain-walls

Young angels pass.

III.

Before them fleets the shower,And burst the buds,And shine the level lands,And flash the floods;The stars are from their handsFlung through the woods.

Before them fleets the shower,

And burst the buds,

And shine the level lands,

And flash the floods;

The stars are from their hands

Flung through the woods.

IV.

O follow, leaping blood,The season’s lure!O heart, look down and up,Serene, secure,Warm as the crocus-cup,Like snow-drops, pure!

O follow, leaping blood,

The season’s lure!

O heart, look down and up,

Serene, secure,

Warm as the crocus-cup,

Like snow-drops, pure!

For now the Heavenly PowerMakes all things new,And thaws the cold and fillsThe flower with dew;The blackbirds have their wills,The poets too.

For now the Heavenly Power

Makes all things new,

And thaws the cold and fills

The flower with dew;

The blackbirds have their wills,

The poets too.

Youth’s Companion.

May comes laughing, crowned with daffodils,Her dress embroidered with blue violets,So gracious and so sweet she scarcely letsA thought return of all the winter’s ills.The orchards with enchanting wealth she fills;In the green marshes golden cowslip sets,And all the waking woodland spaces fretsWith shy anemones. But ah, she willsAt times to frown in sudden wayward mood;The violets shiver clinging to the ground,She’s cold and blustering where once she wooed,And oftentimes in petulant tears is found;But like sweet women, who sometimes are cross,Her smiles come back the sweeter for their loss.Good Cheer.

May comes laughing, crowned with daffodils,

Her dress embroidered with blue violets,

So gracious and so sweet she scarcely lets

A thought return of all the winter’s ills.

The orchards with enchanting wealth she fills;

In the green marshes golden cowslip sets,

And all the waking woodland spaces frets

With shy anemones. But ah, she wills

At times to frown in sudden wayward mood;

The violets shiver clinging to the ground,

She’s cold and blustering where once she wooed,

And oftentimes in petulant tears is found;

But like sweet women, who sometimes are cross,

Her smiles come back the sweeter for their loss.

Good Cheer.

She sits all day plaiting a wild-rose wreath,This daughter of the Sun, come from afar.Sweeter is she than her bright sisters areWho follow her across the flowery heath.A daisy is her sign, and underneathThe meadow’s foamy flow the clovers wearTheir uniforms of white and red, and bearTheir cups of sweet to scent their mistress’ breath.What dawns are thine, O dear, delicious June,When at the drawing of thy curtain’s foldThe birds awake and sing a marvelous tuneTo the young Day that comes in rose and gold!What twilights when the gray dusk hides thy faceThat thou mayst come with more enchanting grace!Travelers’ Record.

She sits all day plaiting a wild-rose wreath,

This daughter of the Sun, come from afar.

Sweeter is she than her bright sisters are

Who follow her across the flowery heath.

A daisy is her sign, and underneath

The meadow’s foamy flow the clovers wear

Their uniforms of white and red, and bear

Their cups of sweet to scent their mistress’ breath.

What dawns are thine, O dear, delicious June,

When at the drawing of thy curtain’s fold

The birds awake and sing a marvelous tune

To the young Day that comes in rose and gold!

What twilights when the gray dusk hides thy face

That thou mayst come with more enchanting grace!

Travelers’ Record.

Lucy Larcom.

Midsummer music in the grass—The cricket and the grasshopper;White daisies and red clover pass;The caterpillar trails her furAfter the languid butterfly;But green and spring-like is the sodWhere autumn’s earliest lamps I spy—The tapers of the golden-rod.This flower is fuller of the sunThan any our pale North can show;It has the heart of August won,And scatters wide the warmth and glowKindled at summer’s mid-noon blaze,Where gentians of September bloomAlong October’s leaf-strewn ways,And through November’s paths of gloom.As lavish of its golden lightAs sunshine’s self, this blossom is;Its starry chandeliers burn brightAll day; and have you noted this—A perfect sun in every flower,—Ten thousand thousand fairy suns,Raying from new disks hour by hour,As up the stalk the life-flash runs?Because its myriad glimmering plumesLike a great army’s stir and wave,Because its gold in billows blooms,The poor man’s barren walks to lave;Because its sun-shaped blossoms showHow souls receive the light of God,And unto earth give back that glow—I thank Him for the golden-rod.

Midsummer music in the grass—

The cricket and the grasshopper;

White daisies and red clover pass;

The caterpillar trails her fur

After the languid butterfly;

But green and spring-like is the sod

Where autumn’s earliest lamps I spy—

The tapers of the golden-rod.

This flower is fuller of the sunThan any our pale North can show;It has the heart of August won,And scatters wide the warmth and glowKindled at summer’s mid-noon blaze,Where gentians of September bloomAlong October’s leaf-strewn ways,And through November’s paths of gloom.

This flower is fuller of the sun

Than any our pale North can show;

It has the heart of August won,

And scatters wide the warmth and glow

Kindled at summer’s mid-noon blaze,

Where gentians of September bloom

Along October’s leaf-strewn ways,

And through November’s paths of gloom.

As lavish of its golden lightAs sunshine’s self, this blossom is;Its starry chandeliers burn brightAll day; and have you noted this—A perfect sun in every flower,—Ten thousand thousand fairy suns,Raying from new disks hour by hour,As up the stalk the life-flash runs?

As lavish of its golden light

As sunshine’s self, this blossom is;

Its starry chandeliers burn bright

All day; and have you noted this—

A perfect sun in every flower,—

Ten thousand thousand fairy suns,

Raying from new disks hour by hour,

As up the stalk the life-flash runs?

Because its myriad glimmering plumesLike a great army’s stir and wave,Because its gold in billows blooms,The poor man’s barren walks to lave;Because its sun-shaped blossoms showHow souls receive the light of God,And unto earth give back that glow—I thank Him for the golden-rod.

Because its myriad glimmering plumes

Like a great army’s stir and wave,

Because its gold in billows blooms,

The poor man’s barren walks to lave;

Because its sun-shaped blossoms show

How souls receive the light of God,

And unto earth give back that glow—

I thank Him for the golden-rod.

John G. Whittier.

From gold to grayOur mild sweet dayOf Indian summer fades too soon;But tenderlyAbove the seaHangs, white and calm, the hunter’s moon.In its pale fireThe village spire,Shows like the zodiac’s spectral lance,The painted wallsWhereon it falls,Transfigured stand in marble trance.

From gold to grayOur mild sweet dayOf Indian summer fades too soon;But tenderlyAbove the seaHangs, white and calm, the hunter’s moon.

From gold to gray

Our mild sweet day

Of Indian summer fades too soon;

But tenderly

Above the sea

Hangs, white and calm, the hunter’s moon.

In its pale fireThe village spire,Shows like the zodiac’s spectral lance,The painted wallsWhereon it falls,Transfigured stand in marble trance.

In its pale fire

The village spire,

Shows like the zodiac’s spectral lance,

The painted walls

Whereon it falls,

Transfigured stand in marble trance.

William Wordsworth.

While not a leaf seems faded, while the fields,With ripening harvests prodigally fair,In brightest sunshine bask, this nipping air,Sent from some distant clime where Winter wieldsHis icy cimeter, a foretaste yieldsOf bitter change, and bids the flowers beware,And whispers to the silent birds, “PrepareAgainst the threatening foe your trustiest shields.”For me, who, under kindlier laws, belongTo Nature’s tuneful choir, this rustling dry,Through the green leaves, and yon crystalline sky,Announce a season potent to renew,’Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

While not a leaf seems faded, while the fields,

With ripening harvests prodigally fair,

In brightest sunshine bask, this nipping air,

Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields

His icy cimeter, a foretaste yields

Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware,

And whispers to the silent birds, “Prepare

Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.”

For me, who, under kindlier laws, belong

To Nature’s tuneful choir, this rustling dry,

Through the green leaves, and yon crystalline sky,

Announce a season potent to renew,

’Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,

And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

William Cullen Bryant.

Ay, thou art welcome, Heaven’s delicious breath,When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,And the year smiles as it draws near its death.Wind of the sunny South, oh! still delayIn the gay woods and in the golden air,Like to a good old age released from care,Journeying, in long serenity, away.In such a bright, late quiet, would that IMight wear out life like thee, ’mid bowers and brooks,And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,And music of kind voices ever nigh,And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass,Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

Ay, thou art welcome, Heaven’s delicious breath,

When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,

And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Wind of the sunny South, oh! still delay

In the gay woods and in the golden air,

Like to a good old age released from care,

Journeying, in long serenity, away.

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I

Might wear out life like thee, ’mid bowers and brooks,

And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,

And music of kind voices ever nigh,

And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass,

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

Alice Cary.

The hills are bright with maples yet;But down the level landThe beech-leaves rustle in the windAs dry and brown as sand.The clouds in bars of rusty redAlong the hilltops glow,And in the still sharp air the frostIs like a dream of snow.The berries of the brier roseHave lost their rounded pride,The bitter-sweet chrysanthemumsAre drooping heavy-eyed.The cricket grows more friendly now,The dormouse sly and wise,Hiding away in disgraceOf nature from men’s eyes.The pigeons in black and wavering linesAre swinging toward the sun;And all the wide and withered fieldsProclaim the summer done.His store of nuts and acorns nowThe squirrel hastes to gain,And sets his house in order forThe winter’s dreary reign.’Tis time to light the evening fire,To read good books, to singThe low and lovely songs that breatheOf the eternal spring.

The hills are bright with maples yet;But down the level landThe beech-leaves rustle in the windAs dry and brown as sand.

The hills are bright with maples yet;

But down the level land

The beech-leaves rustle in the wind

As dry and brown as sand.

The clouds in bars of rusty redAlong the hilltops glow,And in the still sharp air the frostIs like a dream of snow.

The clouds in bars of rusty red

Along the hilltops glow,

And in the still sharp air the frost

Is like a dream of snow.

The berries of the brier roseHave lost their rounded pride,The bitter-sweet chrysanthemumsAre drooping heavy-eyed.

The berries of the brier rose

Have lost their rounded pride,

The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums

Are drooping heavy-eyed.

The cricket grows more friendly now,The dormouse sly and wise,Hiding away in disgraceOf nature from men’s eyes.

The cricket grows more friendly now,

The dormouse sly and wise,

Hiding away in disgrace

Of nature from men’s eyes.

The pigeons in black and wavering linesAre swinging toward the sun;And all the wide and withered fieldsProclaim the summer done.

The pigeons in black and wavering lines

Are swinging toward the sun;

And all the wide and withered fields

Proclaim the summer done.

His store of nuts and acorns nowThe squirrel hastes to gain,And sets his house in order forThe winter’s dreary reign.

His store of nuts and acorns now

The squirrel hastes to gain,

And sets his house in order for

The winter’s dreary reign.

’Tis time to light the evening fire,To read good books, to singThe low and lovely songs that breatheOf the eternal spring.

’Tis time to light the evening fire,

To read good books, to sing

The low and lovely songs that breathe

Of the eternal spring.

Hartley Coleridge.

The mellow year is hasting to its close;The little birds have almost sung their last;Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast,That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;The patient beauty of the scentless roseOft with the morn’s hoar crystal quaintly glassedHangs a pale mourner for the summer pastAnd makes a little summer where it grows,In the chill sunbeam of the faint, brief day.The dusky waters shudder as they shine;The russet leaves obstruct the straggling wayOf oozy brooks, which no deep banks confine,And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,Wrap their old limbs with somber ivy-twine.

The mellow year is hasting to its close;

The little birds have almost sung their last;

Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast,

That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;

The patient beauty of the scentless rose

Oft with the morn’s hoar crystal quaintly glassed

Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past

And makes a little summer where it grows,

In the chill sunbeam of the faint, brief day.

The dusky waters shudder as they shine;

The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way

Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks confine,

And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,

Wrap their old limbs with somber ivy-twine.

Robert Southey.

A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee,Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grayAs the long moss upon the apple-tree;Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose,Close muffled up, and on thy dreary wayPlodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,Old Winter, seated in thy great armed chair,Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,Or circled by them as thy lips declareSome merry jest, or tale of murder dire,Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,Pausing at times to rouse the moldering fire,Or taste the old October brown and bright.

A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee,

Old Winter, with a rugged beard as gray

As the long moss upon the apple-tree;

Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose,

Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way

Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.

They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,

Old Winter, seated in thy great armed chair,

Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,

Or circled by them as thy lips declare

Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,

Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,

Pausing at times to rouse the moldering fire,

Or taste the old October brown and bright.

Louisa Parsons Hopkins.

Blow, northern winds!To brace my fibers, knit my cords,To gird my soul, to fire my words,To do my work—for ’tis the Lord’s—To fashion minds.Come, tonic blasts!Arouse my courage, stir my thought,Give nerve and strength that as I oughtI give my strength to what is wroughtWhile duty lasts.Glow, arctic light!And let my heart with burnished steelThat bright magnetic flame revealWhich kindles purpose, faith, and zealFor truth and right.Shine, winter skies!That when each brave day’s work is doneI wait in peace from sun to sun,To meet unshamed, through victory won,Your starry eyes.

Blow, northern winds!To brace my fibers, knit my cords,To gird my soul, to fire my words,To do my work—for ’tis the Lord’s—To fashion minds.

Blow, northern winds!

To brace my fibers, knit my cords,

To gird my soul, to fire my words,

To do my work—for ’tis the Lord’s—

To fashion minds.

Come, tonic blasts!Arouse my courage, stir my thought,Give nerve and strength that as I oughtI give my strength to what is wroughtWhile duty lasts.

Come, tonic blasts!

Arouse my courage, stir my thought,

Give nerve and strength that as I ought

I give my strength to what is wrought

While duty lasts.

Glow, arctic light!And let my heart with burnished steelThat bright magnetic flame revealWhich kindles purpose, faith, and zealFor truth and right.

Glow, arctic light!

And let my heart with burnished steel

That bright magnetic flame reveal

Which kindles purpose, faith, and zeal

For truth and right.

Shine, winter skies!That when each brave day’s work is doneI wait in peace from sun to sun,To meet unshamed, through victory won,Your starry eyes.

Shine, winter skies!

That when each brave day’s work is done

I wait in peace from sun to sun,

To meet unshamed, through victory won,

Your starry eyes.

Under these names, January, February, March, April, how much is hid that the eye cannot see! Uncover the months and interpret them. In a low and sweet way our Almanac began to speak as if he were a harp, and as if the spirit of the year like a gentle wind was breathing through it.—Henry Ward Beecher.

Rosaline E. Jones.

Who can love you, January?You are gruff and ugly—very.How you roar!And a sorry tale you utter,In a maniacal mutter,At my door.Then you sob and sigh and pine,In a mindless, minor whine,And againA wild, grewsome ditty slipsFrom your frozen, rigid lips,Fierce as pain.Like some creature strung to hate,Wrestling with its cruel fate,ConqueringOnly as you flee apace,Glaring back with grim, wry face,Mimicking.Hush your savage minstrelsyTo a mellower symphony,Soft and deep.Know you no mellifluous rune?No low, lulling cradle croon,Wooing sleep?No soft breath from slumbrous isles,Where eternal summer smilesHalcyon?Beat your tattoo for your raids,And decamp for Hadean shades.Pray begone!

Who can love you, January?You are gruff and ugly—very.How you roar!And a sorry tale you utter,In a maniacal mutter,At my door.

Who can love you, January?

You are gruff and ugly—very.

How you roar!

And a sorry tale you utter,

In a maniacal mutter,

At my door.

Then you sob and sigh and pine,In a mindless, minor whine,And againA wild, grewsome ditty slipsFrom your frozen, rigid lips,Fierce as pain.

Then you sob and sigh and pine,

In a mindless, minor whine,

And again

A wild, grewsome ditty slips

From your frozen, rigid lips,

Fierce as pain.

Like some creature strung to hate,Wrestling with its cruel fate,ConqueringOnly as you flee apace,Glaring back with grim, wry face,Mimicking.

Like some creature strung to hate,

Wrestling with its cruel fate,

Conquering

Only as you flee apace,

Glaring back with grim, wry face,

Mimicking.

Hush your savage minstrelsyTo a mellower symphony,Soft and deep.Know you no mellifluous rune?No low, lulling cradle croon,Wooing sleep?

Hush your savage minstrelsy

To a mellower symphony,

Soft and deep.

Know you no mellifluous rune?

No low, lulling cradle croon,

Wooing sleep?

No soft breath from slumbrous isles,Where eternal summer smilesHalcyon?Beat your tattoo for your raids,And decamp for Hadean shades.Pray begone!

No soft breath from slumbrous isles,

Where eternal summer smiles

Halcyon?

Beat your tattoo for your raids,

And decamp for Hadean shades.

Pray begone!

Mary E. Bradley.

No fairies left? You need not tell me so,For in the night upon my window paneGrew wondrous things that made me surely knowThe fairies are at their old tricks again.O wonder working spirit! if I couldBut learn of you the secret of the snow—How frost is given by the breath of God,And where the hidden water courses flow;And where begotten is the dew that stringsHer lovely pearls upon the meanest weed,And what sweet animating influence bringsThe blossom splendid from the trivial seed;Could I but ride the south wind and the north,And fathom all the mysteries they hold,See how the lightning, leaping wildly forth,And how the turbulent thunder is controlled,I would no more be fretted by the greedAnd selfishness of men; their puny spite,Nor any worldly loss or cross indeed,My lifted soul could evermore affright.And wherefore now? The laughing fairy seemsTo mock at me the spangled window through;And I laugh also, waking from my dreamsTo take up daily loss and cross anew.But with a sense of things divinely planned,That makes me sure I need not fear disdain,From One who holds the thunder in his hand,Yet stoops to trace the frost work on the pane.

No fairies left? You need not tell me so,For in the night upon my window paneGrew wondrous things that made me surely knowThe fairies are at their old tricks again.

No fairies left? You need not tell me so,

For in the night upon my window pane

Grew wondrous things that made me surely know

The fairies are at their old tricks again.

O wonder working spirit! if I couldBut learn of you the secret of the snow—How frost is given by the breath of God,And where the hidden water courses flow;

O wonder working spirit! if I could

But learn of you the secret of the snow—

How frost is given by the breath of God,

And where the hidden water courses flow;

And where begotten is the dew that stringsHer lovely pearls upon the meanest weed,And what sweet animating influence bringsThe blossom splendid from the trivial seed;

And where begotten is the dew that strings

Her lovely pearls upon the meanest weed,

And what sweet animating influence brings

The blossom splendid from the trivial seed;

Could I but ride the south wind and the north,And fathom all the mysteries they hold,See how the lightning, leaping wildly forth,And how the turbulent thunder is controlled,

Could I but ride the south wind and the north,

And fathom all the mysteries they hold,

See how the lightning, leaping wildly forth,

And how the turbulent thunder is controlled,

I would no more be fretted by the greedAnd selfishness of men; their puny spite,Nor any worldly loss or cross indeed,My lifted soul could evermore affright.

I would no more be fretted by the greed

And selfishness of men; their puny spite,

Nor any worldly loss or cross indeed,

My lifted soul could evermore affright.

And wherefore now? The laughing fairy seemsTo mock at me the spangled window through;And I laugh also, waking from my dreamsTo take up daily loss and cross anew.

And wherefore now? The laughing fairy seems

To mock at me the spangled window through;

And I laugh also, waking from my dreams

To take up daily loss and cross anew.

But with a sense of things divinely planned,That makes me sure I need not fear disdain,From One who holds the thunder in his hand,Yet stoops to trace the frost work on the pane.

But with a sense of things divinely planned,

That makes me sure I need not fear disdain,

From One who holds the thunder in his hand,

Yet stoops to trace the frost work on the pane.

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