  GENTLE-BREATHOH, Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing through the grass, And all the flowers know her and love to see her pass. Oh, all the flowers know her, and well they know the song That Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing all day long. O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath! They do not know you sing of death. Oh, Gentle-breath comes crooning a tender lullaby. The merry day is over, the stars are in the sky— The stars are in the sky, and the flowers droop their heads, They cannot hear her passing, so airily she treads. O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath!— How mournfully she murmureth! Oh, Gentle-breath comes crying—comes crying in the night Among the sleeping flowers, with footsteps swift and light. Her tears are on their faces—she sheds them for their sakes, And there is in her singing a tender heart that breaks. O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath!— How tunefully she sings of death! Oh, Gentle-breath goes wailing—goes shivering away, And Icy-breath comes howling, and clouds are dull and gray. Oh, Icy-breath comes howling—the pine trees sob o'erhead For the leaves that all have fallen, the flowers that are dead. O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath! They did not know you sang of death. O promise sweet!—I hear it!—the falling of the rain! The leaves once more shall rustle, the flowers come again! The flowers come again, with their faces fresh and sweet, And all the grass shall tremble 'neath the touches of your feet. For you will come, O Gentle-breath! And sing again your song of death! THE sky had a gray, gray face, The touch of the mist was chill, The earth was an eerie place, For the wind moaned over the hill; But the brown earth laughed, and the sky turned blue, When the little white sun came peeping through. The wet leaves saw it and smiled, The glad birds gave it a song— A cry from a heart, glee-wild, And the echoes laugh it along: And the wind and I went whistling, too, When the little white sun came peeping through. So welcome the chill of rain And the world in its dreary guise— To have it over again, That moment of sweet surprise, When the brown earth laughs, and the sky turns blue, As the little white sun comes peeping through! O TWENTY, running through the wood! Where friendly leaves and grasses stir, Where airs are sweet and trees are strong, And hiding birds call out to her, And every little timid thing That creeps within the woods to sing Seems just to have a voice for her. O Twenty, running through the wood! A woman grown, and yet a child! Now in the sun, now in the shade— The wild gone out to meet the wild. And who can say life is not sweet To eager eyes and fearless feet To Twenty-old and Seven-wild. She leaves the quiet road that winds Its pretty way the whole wood through And makes a pathway for herself, As who at Twenty would not do? Unseen and seen, the wind and she Go through the bush and round the tree— Go roving 'round and singing through. Such pleasure just to lose herself! O Seven-wild! O Twenty-old! The shadows stealing from the night Tread measures strange with gleams of gold. And Mayflowers lift their faces pink:— Now who could look at them and think Of being young or being old? O Twenty, running through the wood! Its wildness has a power to still; The voices low from rock and twig The silences with music thrill,— And suddenly she silent grows, And, searching out the path she knows, Turns back—but carries home the thrill. |
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