A Late Spring.

Twelve weeks had passed—how slowly!—day by day, Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed Old Winter from the scene, and cried, "Make way! The Spring, the Spring!" and still a sullen cloud Obscured the sky, and the north wind blew chill; When lo, one morn the miracle began; A Presence brooded over vale and hill, And through all life a quickening impulse ran. Long-hushed, forgotten melodies awoke Within my soul; the rapture of the boy Refilled me; o'er my arid being broke A brimming tide of elemental joy From primal deeps; and all my happy springs Came back to me—I was the peer of kings!