A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Hope (Sainte-Beuve)
HOPE.
TO MY FRIEND FERDINAND D.
Ce soleil-ci n'est pas le véntable;
Je m'attends à mieux.—Ducis.
When winter's last reflections lie
Upon the front of leafless woods,
When still the north-east wind is high,
Whistling and thundering, loth to die,
And snows still sheet the solitudes;
Sudden a warm, warm breath is felt,
That fills the soul with0 love and awe;
Sudden one morn the vapours melt,
And on the ice is seen a belt,
A band, that ushers in the thaw.
Then to the sun the snows exhale,
The soil gets soft and seems to heave;
And Nature tries her marriage veil
In secret, like a virgin pale
While yet far off the wedding eve.
At first, unseen, the green blade peeps
In furrows high-ridged, straight and long;
On old gnarled trunks the fresh sap creeps;
And on the mossy rock up leaps
The cress as if it feared no wrong.
The ivy on the walls appears,
Walls that have lost their snowy crest;
No leaves as yet—the forest rears
Now only their bright pioneers,
Blossoms and sprouts by winds carest.
Water no longer dormant lies,
The torrent frozen long and fast
Trickles adown the hill, and tries
Freer to flow, like tears from eyes
Of mourners whose despair is past.
Birds! do not sing the golden morn,
The morn of blessed, blessed spring!
Flowers! haste not eager to be born!
Winter may yet have days forlorn;
In patience wait: the hour shall ring.
Thus, thus in age, when near our goal,
We feel from earth-ties almost free,
Away the vapours sometimes roll,
And spite its vision weak, the soul
Has glimpses of Eternity!
A faint reflection, far, obscure,
Of brighter suns,—a sparkle pale
From the life-fountain's column pure,
A vague dawn, but the herald sure
Of that bright Spring that shall not fail.