But, these are flowers of spring, grafted on winter;
Sounds, gently opening, that grow sudden harsh;
In darkness, light’s most momentary splinter;
The sometime flicker, dancing o’er the marsh.
Such visions deaden life, or else exalt:
They will not rest, they lead to Heaven or Hell,
Now charm to happiness’ more stern assault,
Now bid man sink, and more despairing dwell:
Pure vistas open, in long lanes of light,
Building reflections, mirror-like, from their forms,
And lovely angels beckon the entranc’d sight;
Too oft, alas! they’re lost in life’s strange storms:
Let those buds nestle amid memory’s weeds,
They’ll dart their purpose, quickening life’s faint seeds.