Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/219

HAWTHORNE Was plain to him,—the one evasive mark

Wherewith Death stamps us for his own at birth!

Ah, none the less we know

He felt the imperceptible fine thrill

With which the waves of being palpitate,

Whether in ecstasy of joy or woe,

And saw the strong divinity of Will

Bringing to halt the stolid tramp of Fate;

Nor from his work was ever absent quite

The presence which, o'ercast it as we may,

Things far beyond our reason can suggest:

There was a drifting light

In Donatello's cell,—a fitful ray

Of sunshine came to hapless Clifford's breast.

Into such blossom brake

Our northern hedge, that neither mortal sadness

Nor the drear thought of lives that strive and fail,

Nor any hues its sombre leaves might take

From clouded skies, could overcome its gladness

Or in the blessing of its shade prevail.

Fresh sprays it yielded them of Merry Mount

For wedding wreaths; blithe Phœbe with the sweet

Pure flowers her promise to her lover gave:

Beside it, from a fount

Where Pearl and Pansie plashed their innocent feet,

A brook ran on and kissed Zenobia's grave.

Silent and dark the spell

Laid on New England by the frozen North;

Long, long the months,—and yet the Winter ends,

The snow-wraiths vanish, and rejoicing well

The dandelions from the grass leap forth,

And Spring through budding birch and willow sends

Her wind of Paradise. And there are left

Poets to sing of all, and welcome still 189