Iv

LO, as a tree, whose wintry twigs Drink in the sun with fibrous joy, And down into its dampest roots Thrills quickened with the draught of life, I wake unto the dawn, and leave my griefs to drowse.

I rise and drink the fresh sweet air: Each draught a future bud of Spring; Each glance of blue a birth of green; I will not mimic yonder oak That dallies with dead leaves ev’n while the primrose peeps.

But full of these warm-whispering beams, Like Memnon in his mother’s eye,— Aurora! when the statue stone Moaned soft to her pathetic touch,— My soul shall own its parent in the founts of day!

And ever in the recurring light, True to the primal joy of dawn, Forget its barren griefs; and aye Like aspens in the faintest breeze Turn all its silver sides and tremble into song.