POETRY.
LONDON, APRIL, 1889.
THE earth awakes even here ; 'Mid the town's din and strife, The music of the year
Touches the heart of life.
The earth even here is blest 'Neath the town's leaden dome; The cheek the spring sun kissed Blushes in almond-bloom.
The swelling buds fling down Their caps, and out there springs The leaves' pale emerald cone Of soft, still folded wings.
The leaf-plumes, for a space, Are polished pure and good As though their cradle place Were some primeval wood.
Vain of their new green gloss The starlings strut aloof, The sparrow gamins toss Challenge from ledge and roof.
The tiny brown-winged things Make riot everywhere, Their quick, sweet tumult rings In street, and park, and square,.
As happy 'mid the throngs, By gutter, chimney, wall, As though they chirped their songs By glen and waterfall.
Give us, we vainly plead, Your secret against grief; Our wisest cannot read What's written on the leaf.
Unhappy sons of men Who watch from dark to dark ; Our wisest cannot win An answer from the lark. R. H..
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