16
IN SPRING.
Oh, Fate, grant us wings! we are panting for flight
Through the sharp biting cold of this bright winter night!
Through the sharp biting cold of this bright winter night!
Steed, jingle the bells! toss your rich flowing mane!
And lift your proud head in your haughty disdain!
On over the piled drifts like lightning-winged light,—
Up, up the steep hills like deer in a fright,—
Right merrily onward and onward we go!
Ye gods! there is naught will compare with the snow!
And lift your proud head in your haughty disdain!
On over the piled drifts like lightning-winged light,—
Up, up the steep hills like deer in a fright,—
Right merrily onward and onward we go!
Ye gods! there is naught will compare with the snow!
IN SPRING.
The skies are blue as English violets,
The breeze suggests rare tropic airs of balm;
The sun in purple splendor nightly sets,
And evening closes with a saintly calm.
The breeze suggests rare tropic airs of balm;
The sun in purple splendor nightly sets,
And evening closes with a saintly calm.
The mornings are ablaze with red and gold;
The sunlight takes a warmer, richer hue;
Rare possibilities the white clouds hold,
Of grateful shadow, and of cooling dew.
The sunlight takes a warmer, richer hue;
Rare possibilities the white clouds hold,
Of grateful shadow, and of cooling dew.
The brooks, let loose, bound down the rocky heights;
No more the Frost King binds to sleep and dreams,
No more the cold gems with pale chrysolites
The shrubs that droop above the ice-locked streams.
No more the Frost King binds to sleep and dreams,
No more the cold gems with pale chrysolites
The shrubs that droop above the ice-locked streams.
