She only feels she moves towards bliss,
She feels the ferment of the hour:
The past sits widowed on her brow,
Anew she roams, no more alone;
Floods of unrest she fears to own
Watches the clammy twilight wane,
With grief too fixed for woe or tear;
And yields her pure unquestioning soul
Though all fond fancy finds there now
She cannot think she is alone,
Envies the dying year.
To mind of spring or summer days,
And almost dreads to feel.
The joy she feared is at her side,
To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze;
She leans her face against the buds,
Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,
To touch and fondling kiss.
Fall on her from her god, her guide.
As over her senses warmly steal
To walls that house a hollow vow,
The sun and flying clouds have power
Spring's blushing secret now is known.
The thrush's ringing note hath died;
Are sodden trunk and songless bough.
And still she haunts those woodland ways,
That glisten with the fallen shower;
And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane,
Among the summer woodlands wide
The primrose and its mates have flown,
Upon her cheek and changing moods.
She broodeth when the ringdove broods;
But glancing eye and glowing tone
She wanders in the April woods,
She knows not, asks not, what the goal,
She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.