A Year Song.

Sighing above,         Rustling below,     Thorough the woods         The winds go.     Beneath, dead crowds;         Above, life bare;     And the besom tempest         Sweeps the air:     Heart, leave thy woe:     Let the dead things go.     Through the brown         Gold doth push;     Misty green         Veils the bush.     Here a twitter,         There a croak!     They are coming--         The spring-folk!     Heart, be not numb;     Let the live things come.     Through the beech         The winds go,     With gentle speech,         Long and slow.     The grass is fine,         And soft to lie in:     The sun doth shine         The blue sky in:     Heart, be alive;     Let the new things thrive.     Round again!         Here art thou,     A rimy fruit         On a bare bough!     Winter comes,         Winter and snow;     And a weary sighing         To fall and go!     Heart, thy hour shall be;     Thy dead will comfort thee.