Page:Poems Bushnell.djvu/83

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XXXVIRELENTING
The earth is in a melting mood
This morning of the year;
And clasped around by mists that brood,
She smiles to find herself so wooed,
With, now and then, a tear.

The topmost fastness of the hill
Has let the winter go;
The happy-hearted little rill
No longer shivers past the mill
To meadows hushed with snow.

The birds let fall their new-born dreams
Upon me from above;
And many a shadow wed with beams,
And many a wind-kissed blossom seems
To say a word for love.

What is there in this tender air
To thrill me like a dart?
It quickens places poor and bare,
And every covert sweet and fair,
Except one maiden's heart.

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