THOU art the dream of Nature when she sleeps And dreams of youth-time and sweet April's eyes, And slum'bring now, lo! 'round her breast there creeps This pictured vision of departed skies. Departed skies, concaved, with clouds of snow Cerulean-depthed, that left us long ago. And thou art Nature's memory when she wakes All conscience-clear and weeping o'er the past, Clear-visioned, keen, her yearning soul partakes Of that which was, but was too pure to last. And so she holds, with soft light breaking low, Holds to her heart the hopes of long ago. |