Lament

WHEN you hear the white-throat pealing From a tree-top far away, And the hills are touched with purple At the borders of the day; When the redwing sounds his whistle At the coming on of spring, And the joyous April pipers Make the alder marshes ring; When the wild new breath of being Whispers to the World once more, And before the shrine of beauty Every spirit must adore; When long thoughts come back with twilight, And a tender deepened mood Shows the eyes of the beloved Like hepaticas in the wood; Ah, remember, when to nothing Save to love your heart gives heed, And spring takes you to her bosom,— So it was with Golden Weed!