Between the canopied quiet of urgent Spring
And preoccupations of the hastening stream
I stand again amidst the tumbling trees
And the silent fanfare of her golden heraldry.
In this dark place of rock and fern
Can yet a lance of heaven pierce the trees
And impale the firmament in complacent earth
To play a perfect cadence on its silver keys.
Remembrance cannot fold you in my arms
Nor settle your sweet head upon my chest;
It cannot fill my being with your lips
Or, laughing, heal the bramble-marks of Day.
And yet, by other byways of the mind,
In innocence of childish wonders half-recalled,
This sweet grove of patient trust I find,
Befriending grace in an impatient world.