Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/181

148 On old gnarled trunks the fresh sap creeps; And on the mossy rock up leaps The cress as if it feared no wrong.

The ivy on the walls appears, Walls that have lost their snowy crest; No leaves as yet—the forest rears Now only their bright pioneers, Blossoms and sprouts by winds carest.

Water no longer dormant lies, The torrent frozen long and fast Trickles adown the hill, and tries Freer to flow, like tears from eyes Of mourners whose despair is past.

Birds! do not sing the golden morn, The morn of blessed, blessed spring! Flowers! haste not eager to be born! Winter may yet have days forlorn; In patience wait: the hour shall ring.

Thus, thus in age, when near our goal, We feel from earth-ties almost free, Away the vapours sometimes roll, And spite its vision weak, the soul Has glimpses of Eternity!

A faint reflection, far, obscure, Of brighter suns,—a sparkle pale From the life-fountain's column pure, A vague dawn, but the herald sure Of that bright Spring that shall not fail.