BONDS.
119
BONDS.
HE Winter gathers up the foldsOf his torn robe from hills and wolds,
New life breathes over vale and plain,
And dead hearts come to life again,—
But O, these bonds!
Mild March forbears his boisterous ways,
And whispers to the listening days
A promise of the coming June;
And life would be a precious boon,—
Except these bonds!
And whispers to the listening days
A promise of the coming June;
And life would be a precious boon,—
Except these bonds!
A robin sings on yonder limb,
Amid the buds, a triumph hymn;
And I could almost hear the bees
Busy among the apple-trees,
But for these bonds!
Amid the buds, a triumph hymn;
And I could almost hear the bees
Busy among the apple-trees,
But for these bonds!
My soul could catch spring's vital breath,
Could break this icy trance of death,
Could break this icy trance of death,
