Serenity

And could I love it more--this simple scene Of cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested, That lie as if forgotten were all green, So bare, so dead!

Or could my gaze more tenderly entwine Each pallid beech and silvery sycamore Outreaching arms in patience to divine If winter's o'er?

Ah no, the wind has blown into my veins The blue infinity of sky, the sense Of meadows free to-day from icy pains-- From wintry vents.

And sunny peace more virgin than the glow Falling from eve's first star into the night, Brings hope believing what it ne'er can know With mortal sight.