Page:Florence Earle Coates Poems 1898 109.jpg

 EASTER

the Summer fell asleep

Long weary months ago;

Heaped high above her grave I saw

The heavy winter snow;

Say, sparrow, then, what word you bring;

Is it her requiem you sing?

The meadow lark is mute, the wren

Forgets his late abode,

No throstle answering fluteth near,

Yet never prelude flowed

From ivied bosk or verdant slope

More brimming with delight and hope!

I, listening, seem to see the blooms

That were whilom so dear,

And voices loved and silent long

I, listening, seem to hear;

And longings in my breast confer,

And sweet, prophetic pulses stir.

Thou lonely one," they seem to say,

"Lost Summer shall return; 109