Poems (Allen)/Vine-Life
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N the dead barrenness of winter time
I marked this woodbine latticing the wall,
And said, "How pleasantly in summer's prime
This vine shall beautify and curtain all!"
VINE-LIFE.
N the dead barrenness of winter timeI marked this woodbine latticing the wall,
And said, "How pleasantly in summer's prime
This vine shall beautify and curtain all!"
Ere yet in leafless elms the robins sung,
Nature touched tenderly the network screen,
And with her silent fingers slowly strung
The limber stems with gems of living green.
Nature touched tenderly the network screen,
And with her silent fingers slowly strung
The limber stems with gems of living green.
Yet some remained unbudded. Day by day
I watched,—but not late April's gracious air,
Nor yet the warmer smiles of perfect May,
Brought promise to the tendrils brown and bare.
I watched,—but not late April's gracious air,
Nor yet the warmer smiles of perfect May,
Brought promise to the tendrils brown and bare.
Whereat I grieved. "The winter was unkind,"
I said, "to shatter thus my summer dream;—
How shall these dry limbs scatter shade, or blind
My window from the sultry August beam?"
I said, "to shatter thus my summer dream;—
How shall these dry limbs scatter shade, or blind
My window from the sultry August beam?"
Yet see how June my faithless murmuring mocks!
Lo, those new vigorous shoots, all fresh with leaves,
Clasp with their clinging hands these dry dead stalks,
And clamber up, rejoicing, to the caves,—
Lo, those new vigorous shoots, all fresh with leaves,
Clasp with their clinging hands these dry dead stalks,
And clamber up, rejoicing, to the caves,—
Till the brown skeleton is all aleaf,
Fluttering and rain-fresh through its tendrilled length,—
And that which once was death and bitter grief,
Becomes at once its glory and its strength.
Fluttering and rain-fresh through its tendrilled length,—
And that which once was death and bitter grief,
Becomes at once its glory and its strength.
Fettered and cramped by no depending cares,
Up their strange trellis the long garlands go,
As went the angels up the shining stairs
Of Jacob's vision in the long ago.
Up their strange trellis the long garlands go,
As went the angels up the shining stairs
Of Jacob's vision in the long ago.
When shall we learn to read this life aright?
When to our souls will the sweet grace be given
To make our disappointment and our blight
But ladder-rouuds to lift us nearer heaven?
When to our souls will the sweet grace be given
To make our disappointment and our blight
But ladder-rouuds to lift us nearer heaven?