SERENITY

And could I love it more — this simple scene

Of cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested,

That lie as if forgotten were all green,

So bare, so dead!

Or could my gaze more tenderly entwine

Each pallid beech and silvery sycamore

Outreaching arms in patience to divine

If winter's o'er?

Ah no, the wind has blown into my veins

The blue infinity of sky, the sense

Of meadows free to-day from icy pains —

From wintry vents.

And sunny peace more virgin than the glow

Falling from eve's first star into the night,

Brings hope believing what it ne'er can know

With mortal sight.