SONNETS.
Reading edition
HOPE DEFERRED.
Bring no more flowers and books and precious things! O speak no more of our beloved Art, Of summer haunts,—melodious wanderings In leafy refuge from this weary mart! Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart; Now every word a newer sadness brings! Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apart From verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings, Nor craves for more than food from day to day; So long bereft of wildwood joy and song, Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long, The music born within him dies away; Even the song he loved becomes a pain, Full-freighted with a yearning all in vain.
A MOTHER’S PICTURE.
She seemed an angel to our infant eyes! Once, when the glorifying moon revealed Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled,— Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise,— We looked to see the pinions half concealed. The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield Her back to me, who loved her in this wise, And since have little known her, but have grown To see another mother, tenderly Watch over sleeping children of my own. Perchance the years have changed her: yet alone This picture lingers; still she seems to me The fair young angel of my infancy.
