THE SERMON OF SPRING.
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Was not the low roof too high for your poor aspirations?Can you not see that the heart of your city is meanness?Give it another name, lest it stand to defame me."
VI.
No, not Washington, springtide must end my brief lesson.Sweetness of Nature alone for these woes can console us.Blessed is he who takes comfort in seed-time and harvest,Setting the warfare of life to the hymn of the seasons.In the garden, the whispering walls are our refuge,Closes with music its gate on the outer confusion.The heaped green grasses rise up in their congregationLifting their heads to answer the sunshine with gladness.Birdlings singing aloft in the blossom-hung branches,Tell of the promise in which they bring up their young households,Tell of the faith in which God has deserted them never.So—we will lift our heads—these men too are our brothers—
