  A Fragment. Hildegard.It is the time when everything Is flusht with presage of the Spring, When every leaf and twig and bud Feels new life rushing like a flood Through greening veins and bursting tips; When every hour a sunbeam slips Across a sleepy flower’s mouth, And wakes it, babbling of the South; When birds are doubtful where or how To hang their nests on trunk or bough, And all that is in wood or croft Beneath an influence balmy-soft Towards the light begins to strive, Feeling how good it is to live! Walther.How beautiful thou standest there, Thyself a prophet of the May! The shining of thy golden hair Would melt December’s snows away. Forth envious blossoms from their sleeps. And robins plume their breasts anew To mock the crimson of thy lips. Hildegard.But where would be the golden tresses, With ribands bravely intertwined And where the roses, that thy praises Have opened like a Summer wind, Wert thou, my love, my Knight, not here, To make these empty beauties dear? The Spring would never deck her train In such a fair and winsome wise Did she not seek by smiles to chain The sun her royal lover’s eyes. 1876. [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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