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CORA
I
WHEN through thy arching aisles,
O Nature, I perceive
What brooding stillness fills the lonesome choirs
Where, heaven'd late, thy sweet musicians sung;
What rude benumbing touch
Strips from reluctant boughs
The languid leaves and bares to common view
The sacred nest,—the mute, expressive nest,
Whose state defenseless tells
Of fledgeling treasures flown,—
Then, like the prudent birds, my thoughts take flight,
Winging o'er wintry fields to find the spring.
II
Somewhere on Earth's cold breast
The dauntless crocus glows,
And fair Narcissus hangs his head and dreams.
There,—laughing, blushing, like a happy bride,
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