Poems (May)/A gray day in April
A GRAY DAY IN APRIL.
O'erflowed by April mists, the April sun Stands like a spot of silver on the sky, And my pale shadow gliding at my side, Scarce paints the ground. A doubtful radiance dwells Over broad fields and round back-rolling hills; The heaven is uniform gray, and from its edge The bold firm pencilling of blue mountain tops Is almost blurred away. The wind's long sigh, Like the sea-Ariel's in his prison shell,Stirs through the light-clad wood, and thither leads, Edging the marsh, and loitering up the slope,The footpath trodden through the grassy fields. Spring flowers are up—the numb life that hath lain Under the brown leaves like a chrysalis, Is suddenly free. The long wood aisles are bright With the anemone, that sylvan star Hung in the dawn of Spring. The fern leaves still Curl to their stalk, but in the open fields The violet buds are blue. Later will come The alder, hedging with its summer snow Roadside and runlet; by the meadow marsh High banks of reddening laurel. Last of all The tall field flower that at the door of Autumn Knocks with its golden wand. All still—how still! Along the hollows float slow waifs of sound, Echoes of echoes! For the careless wind Drops half his freight of melody, and brings Of the bird's song a note, and leaves behind The brook's full music, and imperfectly Conveys the laughter and linked voices blown This way across the fields, from noisy groups Bound to their hill-side school. My dog lies near, Limbs crossed and, head uplift—and steady eyes Searching the gleamy distance. It is good, Good for the languid frame and restless spirit, A day like this. Thought fades into a dream; The jubilant music of creation's hymn,Yearly renewed, sounds faint as if withdrawn Into the skies, and the irregular pulses Beat slow true time. Life, the wild wounded bird, From circling sky-ward, earth-ward, sinks at last Into the bloomy grass, so glad to rest It scarcely feels the arrow in its side.