Poetry

After the winter rain,     Sing, robin! Sing, swallow! Grasses are in the lane,     Buds and flowers will follow. Woods shall ring, blithe and gay,    With bird-trill and twitter, Though the skies weep to-day,     And the winds are bitter.  Though deep call unto deep    As calls the thunder,  And white the billows leap    The tempest under; Softly the waves shall come    Up the long, bright beaches,  With dainty, flowers of foam    And tenderest speeches… After the wintry pain,     And the long, long sorrow,  Sing, heart!—for thee again    Joy comes with the morrow.

The wind was a care-free soul      That broke the chains of earth,  And strode for a moment across the land     With the wild halloo of his mirth. He little cared that he ripped up trees,      That houses fell at his hand,  That his step broke calm on the breast of seas,      That his feet stirred clouds of sand.  But when he had had his little joke,      Had shouted and laughed and sung,  When the trees were scarred, their branches broke,      And their foliage aching hung,  He crept to his cave with a stealthy tread,      With rain-filled eyes and low-bowed head.