An Easter Market.

Today, through your Easter market     In the lazy Southern sun,     I strolled with hands in pockets     Past the flower-stalls one by one.     Indolent, dreamy, ready     For anything to amuse,     Shyfoot out for a ramble     In his oldest hat and shoes.     Roses creamy and yellow,     Azaleas crimson and white,     And the flaky fresh carnations     My Orient of delight,--     Masses and banks of blossom     That dazzle and summon the eye,     Till the buyers are half bewildered     To know what they want. Not I.     Who would not rather be artist     And slip through the crowd unseen     To gather it all in a picture     And guess what the faces mean?     So down through the chaffering darkies     I pass to the sidewalk's end,     Through the smiling gingham bonnets     With their small farm-stuff to vend.     When, hello! my dreamer, sudden     As call at the dead of night,     What sets your pulses a-quiver,     What sets your fancy alight?     Sure of it! Mayflowers, mayflowers,     Scent of the North in spring!     Out in the vernal distance,     Heart of me, whither a-wing?     "Give me some!" Clutch the first handful,     Hungering rover of earth!     How I devour and kiss them,     Beauties that brought me to birth,     Away in the great north country,     The land of the lonely sun,     Where God has few for his fellows,     And the wolves of the snowdrift run.     Once more to the frost-bound valley     Comes April with rain in her jar;     I can hear the vesper sparrow     Under the silver star.     And many and dear and gracious     Are the dreams that walk at my side     From the land of the lingering shadows,     As out of the throng I stride.     Oh, well for you, mere onlooker,     Who drift through the world's great mart!     But we of the human sorrow     Have a joy beyond your art.