Winds cry to the peaks; trees hush, elate To an old note calling; crumpled leaves, dead, Stir their little mounds; so, in silver net Of four corners, life, made and re-made, Of long-buried death. Fretful the stream, Its fret of far snows begotten and chilled; Of lost spring, its echo; of bubble, of brim, Once only to vagabond Star was revealed. So walk the gods softly—where tall pines lean To their footfalls' music; from dark sleep awake, A bird spills its heart; crashing shard of its pain My stript soul is lifted ... a new tongue I speak. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AGAINST THE REST OF THE YEAR by JAMES GALVIN VIGNETTES OVERSEAS: 8. FLORENCE by SARA TEASDALE OUR COUNTRY'S CALL by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE OLD SHIPS by JAMES ELROY FLECKER TO AMERICA by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE by EDWIN ARNOLD |