XXIV.

Not yet, not yet! the Season sings

Not of fruition yet, but hope;

Still holds aloft, like balanced wings,

Her scales, and lets not either drop.

The white ash, last year's skeleton,

Still glares, uncheered by leaf or shoot,

‘ Gainst azure heavens, and joy hath none

In that fresh violet at her foot.

Yet Nature's virginal suspense

Is not forgetfulness nor sloth:

Where'er we wander, soul and sense

Discern a blindly working growth.

Her throne once more the daisy takes,

That white star of our dusky earth;

And the sky-cloistered lark down-shakes

Her passion of seraphic mirth.

Twixt barren hills and clear cold skies

She weaves, ascending high and higher,

Songs florid as those traceries

Which took, of old, their name from fire.

Sing! thou that need'st no ardent clime

To sun the sweetness from thy breast;

And teach us those delights sublime

Wherein ascetic spirits rest!