The Promise of Spring.
Slow dies the wintry day, the winds of March1
Break with their icy breath the evening hush,2
And snow-clad hills reflect the sunset-flush3
That paints with purple all Heaven’s western arch ;4
But, from the laden branches of the larch,5
Upon the frosty air a happy thrush6
Pours floods of melody, and flings a gush7
Of gladsome music to the winds of March.8
Thus when our life’s drear winter lingers long—9
When with the eve there comes no vision sweet10
To our sad eyes, and hope has taken wing—11
Oh, may some distant strain of seraph-song12
Burst forth, and tell us that our faltering feet13
Stand on the threshold of a joyous Spring !14