| THE eager night and the impetuous winds, | |
| The hints and whispers of a thousand lures, | |
| And all the swift persuasion of the Spring, | |
| Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on... | |
| The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear, | 5 |
| Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrill | |
| Of some well-known but half-forgotten voice. | |
| A slender stream became a naked sprite, | |
| Flashed around curious bends, and winked at me | |
| Beyond the turns, alert and mischievous. | 10 |
| A saffron moon, dangling among the trees, | |
| Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs, | |
| Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze... | |
| And as it hung there, vivid and unreal, | |
| The whole world's lethargy was brushed away; | 15 |
| The night kept tugging at my torpid mood | |
| And tore it into shreds. A warm air blew | |
| My wintry slothfulness beyond the stars; | |
| And over all indifference there streamed | |
| A myriad urges in one rushing wave... | 20 |
| Touched with the lavish miracles of earth, | |
| I felt the brave persistence of the grass; | |
| The far desire of rivulets; the keen, | |
| Unconquerable fervor of the thrush; | |
| The endless labors of the patient worm; | 25 |
| The lichen's strength; the prowess of the ant; | |
| The constancy of flowers; the blind belief | |
| Of ivy climbing slowly toward the sun; | |
| The eternal struggles and eternal deaths— | |
| And yet the groping faith of every root! | 30 |
| Out of old graves arose the cry of life; | |
| Out of the dying came the deathless call. | |
| And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness, | |
| The thing that was my boyhood woke in me— | |
| Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again; | 35 |
| Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come, | |
| And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth, | |
| With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh, | |
| Leaped up to face the heaven's unconcern.... | |
| |
| And then—veil upon veil was torn aside— | 40 |
| Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys, | |
| Danced gaily 'round me, plucking at my hand; | |
| The night, scorning its stubborn mystery, | |
| Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart; | |
| The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more Song, | 45 |
| Sang with a happy challenge to the skies; | |
| Love and the faces of a world of children | |
| Swept like a conquering army through my blood. | |
| And Beauty, rising out of all its forms, | |
| Beauty, the passion of the universe, | 50 |
| Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears, | |
| And, like a wine, poured itself out for me | |
| To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go | |
| Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight; | |
| To meet with confidence the cynic years; | 55 |
| Battling in wars that never can be won, | |
| Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat. | |
