5 APRIL 1879, Page 16

POETRY.

SPRING.

WINTER has risen to bid his gruff good-bye.

I feel the first warm touches of the Sun, As of a mother's hand when work is done.

I hear the first lark's anthem in the sky ;

I watch the great white clouds go flying by ; I note the flowers awaking one by one ; And soft airs whisper, " Summer is begun !"

0 how the soul leaps up exultingly, As it would break its heavy prison-bar !

And man seems dearer, God seems nearer, far.

For this is truth, deny it how we may,—

That light and darkness make us what we are.

We are the creatures of our moods, and they Are creatures of the clear or cloudy day.