never rob
Of their triumph, when they bound
Through the tree and from the ground.

Great within me is my soul,
Great to journey to its goal,
To the country of the dead;
For the cornel-tips are red,
And a passion rich in strife
Drives me toward the home of life.

Oh, to keep the spring with them
Who have flushed the cornel-stem,
Who imagine at its source
All the year's delicious course,
Then express by wind and light
Something of their rapture's height!

[Decoration]

_LET US WREATHE THE MIGHTY CUP._

Let us wreathe the mighty cup,
Then with song we 'll lift it up,
And, before we drain the glow
Of the juice that foams below
Flowers and cool leaves round the brim,
Let us swell the praise of him
Who is tyrant of the heart,
Cupid with his flaming dart!

Pride before his face is bowed,
Strength and heedless beauty cowed;
Underneath his fatal wings
Bend discrowned the heads of kings;
Maidens blanch beneath his eye
And its laughing mastery;
Through each land his arrows sound,
By his fetters all are bound.

_WHERE WINDS ABOUND._

Where winds abound,
And fields are hilly,
Shy daffadilly
Looks down on the ground.

Rose cones of larch
Are just beginning;
Though oaks are spinning
No oak-leaves in March.

Spring 's at the core,
The boughs are sappy:
Good to be happy
So long, long before!

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

NORMAN GALE.

1862.

_A SONG._

First the fine, faint, dreamy motion
Of the tender blood
Circling in the veins of children--
This is Life, the bud.

Next the fresh, advancing beauty
Growing from the gloom,
Waking eyes and fuller bosom--
This is Life, the bloom.

Then the pain that follows after,
Grievous to be borne,
Pricking, steeped in subtle poison--
This is Love, the thorn.

_SONG._

Wait but a little while--
The bird will bring
A heart in tune for melodies
Unto the spring,
Till he who 's in the cedar there
Is moved to trill a song so rare,
And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while--
The bud will break;
The inner rose will ope and glow
For summer's sake;
Fond bees will lodge within her breast
Till she herself is plucked and prest
Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while--
The maid will grow
Gracious with lips and hands to thee,
With breast of snow.