Each grace is a jewel Would ransom the town; The sceptre, had still kept the purple and crown. THE WISTFUL DAYS WHAT is there wanting in the Spring? The morning beckons, and like balm Are westward waters blue and calm. Yet something's wanting in the Spring. What is it wanting in the Spring? What is so poignant in thy thrall More subtle than the speech of Love, What nameless lack or loss of Spring? SOME space beyond the garden close The cheerful, zephyr-breathing dawn. The hollyhocks stood nodding brows. They shone full bold and debonair — That fine, trim band of frolic blades; Their ruffles, pinked and purfled fair, Flamed with their riotous rainbow shades. They whispered light each comrade's ears, They flirted with the wooing breeze; The grassy army's stanchest spears Rose merely to their stalwart knees! My heart flushed warm with welcome cheer, Their radiance mocked the ruddy morn, They brightened all the emerald lea. I said: "Glad hearts, the crabbed frost Will soon your sun-dyed glories blight; No evil eye your pride has crossed, You know not the designs of night. |