Poetry Archives

Sighing above,
  Rustling below,
Thorough the woods
  The winds go.
Beneath, dead crowds;
  Above, life bare;
And the besom tempest
  Sweeps the air:
Heart, leave thy woe:
Let the dead things go.

Through the brown
  Gold doth push;
Misty green
  Veils the bush.
Here a twitter,
  There a croak!
They are coming—
  The spring-folk!
Heart, be not numb;
Let the live things come.

Through the beech
  The winds go,
With gentle speech,
  Long and slow.
The grass is fine,
  And soft to lie in:
The sun doth shine
  The blue sky in:
Heart, be alive;
Let the new things thrive.

Round again!
  Here art thou,
A rimy fruit
  On a bare bough!
Winter comes,
  Winter and snow;
And a weary sighing
  To fall and go!
Heart, thy hour shall be;
Thy dead will comfort thee.