POETRY
REGENERATION
Now on the winter woods Descends a second glory.
Clustering stars of parsley Shoot from the grass ; and hoary Berries in the lucid air Shine like the ghosts of flowers Lovelier now than when They cupped the summer showers.
From spearing branches fall
Bright dew-bells; one and one,
Tinkling across the woods That are so still ; and on The cusped and silver leaves Lighting the ground - I tread, A rarer beauty lies Now they are dead . . .
I seem to walk on air—
As if the frost had burned Old griefs away, and all To e white joy had turned ; As if my body moved In a Paradise! day Where only the things of the spirit Survived the coloured clay : Till threading through the clean Morning, a robin sings, Striving with each crisp note That from his throat he flings, To tell My new-born spirit What is to him so clear And shrilly bright . . . But still My spirit cannot hear.
C. HENRY WARREN.
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