UNBURTHENED

Not grief nor the sunny wine

Of gladness steeps my spirit as I gaze

Over these meads that lie engarmented

In stubble robes of winter-weary brown.

For, as those solitary trees afar

Have reached unbudding boughs to the dim day

And melted on the infinite calm of space,

So have I reached, and am no more distraught

With the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.

But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair,

Of rest that rises as a tide of sleep,

Of care borne on the plumes of swan-swift clouds

Away to the sullen shades of the low west,

Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude —

And lent it faith's illimitable Peace.