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- 2004-02-23
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The spring is here, the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing thing.
We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods;
Yet, even there , a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The water tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet:
Strange, that they fill not, with their edgs meet;
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
There 's no contentment in the world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
we may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly strea;
Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eyes
And pine till it is hooded from the sky.
----------------N P Willis
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing thing.
We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods;
Yet, even there , a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The water tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet:
Strange, that they fill not, with their edgs meet;
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
There 's no contentment in the world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
we may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly strea;
Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eyes
And pine till it is hooded from the sky.
----------------N P Willis
