  I dreamed the Lord of Life was dead. Tremulous awe fell on the earth, Virtue had gone from out all things, The sun and rain were nothing worth. Rude power seized the painted woods And hurled their glory down the steep, The landscape wrapt in cerements And left in death's eternal sleep. Nor bloom nor odor met the sense, Nor wind-chant of the foliaged tree, Nor grove of singing birds, nor psalm Borne from the ever-voiceful sea. Color had fled the air and sky, A stony stillness held the earth, Virtue had gone from out all things, Man's ebbing life was nothing worth. And as I wept within my dream And knew my pulse of being slowed, I sudden was aware of change— A flush on pallid nature showed! Lo, heralds of the arriving year! The bugled flock beclangs the blue, The hyla pipes by willowed run, The flashing swallow skims the dew. Up from the rampike's ghastly arms The gold-shaft high-hole's challenge floats, While greening hill and valley laugh And shore breaks out in pÆan notes. And in my dream I leapt for joy— "'Twas but an awful dream," I said, "The Lord of Life, for evermore He lives—'twas once for all He bled!" And waked from sleep by beating heart, I heard the first red robin sing, And knew that once again had come Fresh from the life of God the spring. |
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