PREMONITIONS.
In the winter wan and white,When the days grow long and bright,And the sun grows warm and hotIn each southward sheltered spotBack of fences, under hills;Then my brain with fancy fills,Then my heart grows young againThrough the days that wax and wane.In the morning when I wake,Something all my heart doth takeCaptive with a secret thrillToward the young year’s waking will;When I feel the sun behindMy closed, eastward window blind,Something wells up in my heart,Most of joy and hope a part.Burns the morning’s warming glowOver wastes of ice and snow;Over spaces chill and bare,Life and love are in the air.With the year that is to beThrobs my heart in sympathy.Springward turns the whole world’s mind,Sleep and death are left behind.In the hot, glad afternoons,When the whole world melts and swoonsIn a garment of thin hazeOver woods and rude roadways,And the landscape, chill and wan,Softer aspect taketh on;Then my steps to southward turnWhere the sloping sun doth burn.Then my heart within me singsLyrics of the world’s dead springs;Something mystic, magical,Hovers, glamours over all;Even the osiers, red and yellow,Prophesy each to its fellow;Every voice and note I hearWhispers of the pulsing year.Cackling fowls in southward barns,Wild notes over sheeted tarns,Melted roadways, soiled snow,Premature calling of a crow,Fill my soul with reveriesAs wells the upward sap in trees,When my steps to southward turnAnd the sloping sun doth burn.Then at night, ere men have slept,Across the stars a mist hath crept;Then a film drapes the skies,And the night hath softer eyes;Something in the heaven aglow,Something in the earth below,Toward glad dreaming turns my brain,And my heart grows young again.
In the winter wan and white,When the days grow long and bright,And the sun grows warm and hotIn each southward sheltered spotBack of fences, under hills;Then my brain with fancy fills,Then my heart grows young againThrough the days that wax and wane.In the morning when I wake,Something all my heart doth takeCaptive with a secret thrillToward the young year’s waking will;When I feel the sun behindMy closed, eastward window blind,Something wells up in my heart,Most of joy and hope a part.Burns the morning’s warming glowOver wastes of ice and snow;Over spaces chill and bare,Life and love are in the air.With the year that is to beThrobs my heart in sympathy.Springward turns the whole world’s mind,Sleep and death are left behind.In the hot, glad afternoons,When the whole world melts and swoonsIn a garment of thin hazeOver woods and rude roadways,And the landscape, chill and wan,Softer aspect taketh on;Then my steps to southward turnWhere the sloping sun doth burn.Then my heart within me singsLyrics of the world’s dead springs;Something mystic, magical,Hovers, glamours over all;Even the osiers, red and yellow,Prophesy each to its fellow;Every voice and note I hearWhispers of the pulsing year.Cackling fowls in southward barns,Wild notes over sheeted tarns,Melted roadways, soiled snow,Premature calling of a crow,Fill my soul with reveriesAs wells the upward sap in trees,When my steps to southward turnAnd the sloping sun doth burn.Then at night, ere men have slept,Across the stars a mist hath crept;Then a film drapes the skies,And the night hath softer eyes;Something in the heaven aglow,Something in the earth below,Toward glad dreaming turns my brain,And my heart grows young again.
In the winter wan and white,When the days grow long and bright,And the sun grows warm and hotIn each southward sheltered spotBack of fences, under hills;Then my brain with fancy fills,Then my heart grows young againThrough the days that wax and wane.
In the morning when I wake,Something all my heart doth takeCaptive with a secret thrillToward the young year’s waking will;
When I feel the sun behindMy closed, eastward window blind,Something wells up in my heart,Most of joy and hope a part.
Burns the morning’s warming glowOver wastes of ice and snow;Over spaces chill and bare,Life and love are in the air.With the year that is to beThrobs my heart in sympathy.Springward turns the whole world’s mind,Sleep and death are left behind.
In the hot, glad afternoons,When the whole world melts and swoonsIn a garment of thin hazeOver woods and rude roadways,And the landscape, chill and wan,Softer aspect taketh on;Then my steps to southward turnWhere the sloping sun doth burn.
Then my heart within me singsLyrics of the world’s dead springs;Something mystic, magical,Hovers, glamours over all;Even the osiers, red and yellow,Prophesy each to its fellow;Every voice and note I hearWhispers of the pulsing year.
Cackling fowls in southward barns,Wild notes over sheeted tarns,Melted roadways, soiled snow,Premature calling of a crow,Fill my soul with reveriesAs wells the upward sap in trees,When my steps to southward turnAnd the sloping sun doth burn.
Then at night, ere men have slept,Across the stars a mist hath crept;Then a film drapes the skies,And the night hath softer eyes;Something in the heaven aglow,Something in the earth below,Toward glad dreaming turns my brain,And my heart grows young again.