Iii

On some hoar upland, sweet with clustered thorns, Hard by a river's windy white of waves, I shall sit down with Spring,--whose eyes are morns Of light; whose cheeks the rose of health enslaves,-- And so forget thee braiding in her hair The snowdrop, tipped with green, The cool-eyed primrose and the trillium fair, And moony celandine. Contented so to lie within her arms, Forgetting all the sear and sad and wan, Remembering love alone, who o'er earth's storms, High on the mountains of perpetual dawn, Leads the glad hours on.