Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

At Length Their Long Kiss Severed, With Sweet Smart:and As The Last Slow Sudden Drops Are Shedfrom Sparkling Eaves When All The Storm Has Fled,so Singly Flagged The Pulses Of Each Heart.

This Sunlight Shames November Where He Grieves In Dead Red Leaves, And Will Not Let Him Shun The Day, Though Bough With Bough Be Overrun. But With A Blessing Every Glade Receives High Salutation.

So Spring Comes Merry Towards Me Here, But Earns No Answering Smile From Me, Whose Life Is Twin'd With The Dead Boughs That Winter Still Must Bind, And Whom Today The Spring No More Concerns. Behold, This Crocus Is A Withering Flame; This Snowdrop, Snow; This Apple-blossom's Part To Breed The Fruit That Breeds The Serpent's Art. Nay, For These Spring-flowers, Turn Thy Face From Them, Nor Stay Till On The Year's Last Lily-stem The White Cup Shrivels Round The Golden Heart.

Unto The Man Of Yearning Thought And Aspiration, To Do Nought Is In Itself Almost An Act.

Your Eyes Smile Peace.