WHEN the mornings dankly fall
With a dim forethought of rain,
And the robins richly call
To their mates mercurial,
And the tree-boughs creak and strain
In the wind ;
When the river’s rough with foam,
And the new-made clearings smoke,
And the clouds that go and come
Shine and darken frolicsome,
And the frogs at evening croak
Mysteries of monotone;
And by melting beds of snow
Wind-flowers blossom all alone ;
Then I know
That the bitter winter ’s dead.
Over his head
The damp sod breaks so mellow, —
Its mosses tipped with points of yellow, —
I cannot but be glad;
Yet this sweet mood will borrow
Something of a sweeter sorrow,
To touch and turn me sad.
G. P. Lathrop.