POETRY.
THE FRESHER SPRING TIME.
IT comes again, thrilling each sense in turn !
We strain the eye to see, the ear to hear ;— It sickens in each sense and dies of fear, Yet leaves the spirit tiptoe-set to learn.
We, wondering, look on all sides to discern Aught of its leaving ; turning quick to peer Into the by-ways of the soul, crying, "Who goes here ?"
But answer comes not, though the temples burn.
What is it ? Who can tell ?—but this we feel, The moment is as though a rich new birth Fought with the old to give us liberty :— The pulse of newness makes the senses reel, The long-loved past is as a dream, and earth, Ocean, and sky are quick with mystery !
JOHN HOGBEN.