Who thrust his right hand into the fire
Because it had broken plight with his heart
And written against the voice of his conviction.
With such memories they exalted and cherished
The heroism of their tried souls,
And ours are wrung with doubt and self-distrust!
I am kneeling on the odorous earth;
The sweet, shy feet of Spring come tripping o’er the land,
Winter is fled to the hills, leaving snowy wreaths
On apple-tree, meadow, and marsh.
The walls are astir; little waves of blue
Run through my fingers murmuring:
“We follow the winds and the snow!”
Their heart is a cup of gold.
Soft whispers of showers and flowers
Are mingled in the spring song of the walls.
Hark to the songs that go singing like the wind
Through the chinks of the wall and thrill the heart
And quicken it with passionate response!
The walls sing the song of wild bird, the hoof-beat of deer, The murmur of pine and cedar, the ripple of many streams;
Crows are cal