At Variance

THROUGH the frost, and the cold, and the passion
Of winter’s despair;
With the Earth buried deep in her shroud, and the raving
Of storms in the air ;
Unheeding the gloom, or the shock of the tempest,
Or any wild thing,
I sang, and was glad and triumphant;
In my heart it was spring.
But now in a white world of blossoms,
Wing-haunted and sweet ;
A wind blowing light o’er the orchard, and waving
The grass at my feet; The song of a bird overhead, — I listen,
And look, and am dumb;
For lo ! in my heart of unreason
The winter has come.
Cara W. Bronson.