Is wasted like the snow,
That from new fountains overflow,
And the winds did woo),
Of which it doth now know,
'Tis said that when
Did rivulets run,
The love of years
The virgin Earth
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Were in their strength subdued,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,—
The wild rose pale
(Whom the sun and the dew
Gave instant birth
Within the heart
To springs that ne'er did flow—
So when in tears
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Deep in the heart whose hope has died—
Sweet flowers, ere long,—
And the queenly lily adown the dale
That in the sun
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
Like silent streams
Perfumed the gale,
And the fine fibrils of its life
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
Tamed this primeval wood,
And strange, sweet dreams,
And all around rare flowers did blow—
Are broken at a blow—
Do springs upstart
And hoary trees with groans of wo,
The hands of men