A sickly apple-tree, by lightning split,
Knows not, if it bloomed e'er.
When days are clear, the whistling finches
Invade the rubble. Beaming, sunlit days
Liven the dial's arc that fronts the place,
And freakishly and gaily on its face
Time's shadow dances
And to the sky recites in words of gloom:
Sine sole nihil sum.
For all is mask.
3. FEBRUARY.
Thou who adorest peace and solitude
And amid depth of woods, and calm of snowclad meadows
Hearkenest to the beat of life,
Dost thou not ever hear
Voice of the depths?
Far carnivals of slaughter, blood and death are heard.
Earth's muteness is of woe.
But below
The heart-beat stirs, and from the gloom a hidden well
Thrusts itself lightwards.
And tunes young waters chant
Quicken thy heart, and daze thy thoughts with joy that we
Though in despair, yet not alone in hope can be.
