Love’S Hope

JOY, like the flashes of a fitful sun, Falls on my storm-worn heart, and kindling, dies In wandering gleams about the changeful skies, Cloud-built with tempest towers, and wind-undone: For winds make desolate the day begun Wild on my path that climbs a bleak green hill, Among the writhen thorns, oft traversed, chill With the breath of March, until the ridge is won:

Wherefrom I think to gain some hopeful sign, As range mine eyes the saddened landscape round, That keeps my soul’s white house, whence I return, With thoughts that may not utterly repine, But hearing even in the strong wind’s sound The shout of coming spring which makes me burn.