  The city's ways were crowded thick,— I bent my steps athrough its mass Of men and women, stone and brick, Its whirring wheels and piping brass. And all day long, with hurrying feet, I trod the surging marts of trade; Yet in the rush and roar of street A calm within my breast was made. For visions came of fair things wrought By beauty's witching hand and grace Upon my spirit when I caught Life's spring-time image of her face:— Blue violets in mossy bed, Flashing with jewels on their breast; The sky-stained eggs of robin red Laid in her lined adobe nest; The shy lone brook, crept soft upon Lest I should fright its brattling play; The woods ahark for something gone, Or whispering of elf and fay; The silver lake with lilies in bloom, Their cups half-full of heaven's gold,— The circling shore all prankt with plume Of ferns, whose fronds the waters told; And up the hill the whitethroat's song— A crystal bell that shakes the dew! While floats in dream the cloud along, And veils the palpitating blue; The musical and dream-like rain Falling on roof o'er fragrant hay; The blood-red spear, unflushed of pain, Of sunbeam thrust 'tween battens grey; And in a trice, the sculptured shore Where halcyon tides with wonder-wings Redden their plumes in toil to soar To where Evangeline's memory clings,— Such sights and sounds swift came and went,— Glad sunshafts of an April day! And to impetuous traffic lent The restful sweetness of the may. Imprisoned close in city marts, O childhood, so divinely fair, For thee, deep in my heart of hearts, Sweet pity beats her wings all bare! |
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