BUT yesterday the laughing sun
Came dancing up the rosy East—
You would have thought that it was May;
The birds sang clear on every spray.

The heart with fuller motion beat,
The sad eye flashed with brighter fire;
Down to the ground the sunbeams came
And lit the crocus’ slender flame.

The branches of the lonely pine
Rocked to a glad harmonious hymn.
The song-bird’s music and the breeze
With double laughter shook the trees

That cluster round the southern wall,
A feathery fringe against the sky;
Their yellow branches in the sun
Are very fair to look upon.

Far down between the rounded hills,
I watched a wreath of morning mist
Floating in shadow—rising slow,
The sunlight glorified its snow.

The day was blesséd. Field and hill
Dreamed, bathed in light and lulled with sound.
All day my soul at peace within
Went carolling her joyful hymn.
———
To-day you cannot see the sun,
A blinding mist blots out the sky.
You hear the angry waters flow,
You hear the wintry breezes blow.

The branches of the lonely pine
Mutter and sigh tossed to and fro;
The birds that chanted in the sun
Sit in the covert cold and dumb.

The maiden Spring that Yesterday
Was born, To-Day, alas! is dead.
The pitying heavens drop over all
This silent snow for fittest pall.

The sobbing winds her requiem sing;
The plashing waves upon the shore
Sigh hour by hour; the dreary day
In mist and silence fades away.

The heart is wintry as the earth—
Tossed with the storm, and drenched with gloom,
And dark with doubts that round her throng,
To choke with tears her heavenly song.

Sometimes the evening shades
Draw around us as we talk,
Sometimes the tired sun,
Drooping towards the West,
Makes all the fields of heaven
With autumn’s colors glow;
Sometimes the sailing moon,
Unclouded and serene,
Rises between the misty woods
That crown the distant hills;
Then most I love to sit
And watch my lady’s hands
Blush with the sunset’s rose,
Or whiten in the moon,
Or, lucid in the amber evening air,
Folded, repose.

Sometimes she paces slowly
Among the garden flowers;
Above her the trees tremble,
And lean their leafage down,
So much they love to see her;
The flowers, white and red,
Open their fragrant eyes,
Gladder to hear her coming
Than birds singing,
Or bees humming.
She, stooping, clad in grace,
Gathers them one by one,
Lily and crimson rose,
With sprigs of tender green,
And holds them in her hands.

Nothing can sweeter be
Than, lying on the lawn,
To see those graceful hands
Drop all their odorous load
Upon her snowy lap,
And then, with magic skill
And rosy fingers fine,
To watch her intertwine
Some wreath, not all unfitting
Young brows divine.

How beautiful it is
To see my lady’s hands;
In moonlight sorrowful,
Or sunlight fire,
Busied with graceful toil,
Or folded in repose,
How beautiful it is
To see my lady’s hands.