POE TRY.
SPRING IS NOT DEAD.
I.
SNow on the earth, though March is well-nigh over ; Ice on the flood : Fingers of frost, where late the hawthorn cover Burgeoned with bud !
Yet in the drift the patient primrose hiding, Yet in the stream the glittering troutlet gliding, Yet from the root the sap still upward springing, Yet overhead one faithful skylark singing, "Spring is not dead."
Brows fringed with white, the furrowed brows of sorrow, Cheeks pale with care, Pulses of pain that throb from night to morrow, Hearts of despair !
Oh! yet take comfort, still your joy approaches ; Dark is the hour that on the dawn encroaches ; April's own smile shall yet succeed your sighing, April's own song from every copse come crying, "Spring is not dead."
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
Previous page
