A LATE SPRING.

Twelve weeks had passed — how slowly!— day by day,

Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed

Old Winter from the scene, and cried, “Make way!

The Spring, the Spring!” and still a sullen cloud

Obscured the sky, and the north wind blew chill;

When lo, one morn the miracle began;

A Presence brooded over vale and hill,

And through all life a quickening impulse ran.

Long-hushed, forgotten melodies awoke

Within my soul; the rapture of the boy

Refilled me; o'er my arid being broke

A brimming tide of elemental joy

From primal deeps; and all my happy springs

Came back to me — I was the peer of kings!