THE MEDITATIONS OF A WIDOW.
Springtime,—it surely came,—its roundelays!
Wherefore these full, rich notes and Summer tone?
I only knew it was thy Spring to Life,—
Above the life of seasons and decay,—
True Life, not knowing stint, nor blight, nor check,
One everlasting growth in incorruption!
Now joyous Summer passeth in her wealth.
She filleth clusters; hangeth gold on boughs;
Prepare th the full sheaf, the luscious sweets,
Gorgeous apparel; dresses for lilies,
And for daisies too; soft hues for Even
And for Morn; Music, the livelong day;
And Fountains cool, to freshen all.
I only know that heat and taint and toil
Can never come to thee! Thou'st found thy wealth,
Where thine affections reached, in thy mock-life;
Hast found that River (either side the Tree
Whose leaves—oh thou art rich!—unfolded to thee
Fadeless), for the people, past and coming;
The fount of freshness, overflowing all:
And thou hast learned the rich undying strain,
Trumphant, glorious Alleluia!
Autumn, I know thee well,—thy cool all-hail!
Thou introducest change: Beauty is pale:
Those flashes but proclaim "passing away."
Why art thou stern upon our lingering love?
Why dost deride and blow upon our joys?
Why spend thyself to strew our seeming wealth,
And give our very comforts to the wind?
Thine awful whisperings are of Grandeur come,
And we must hear acclaim of Majesty,
Till, half congealed with awe, we breathe "Amen!
