Poems (Sharpless)/A Hillside Spring

by Frances M. Sharpless

A HILLSIDE SPRING

I know a tiny hillside spring,
 Hidden among the grasses;
Its water is the sweetest thing
 That mortal lips e'er passes.

And when the woods are all astir
 With life-sap freshly flowing;
And you may feel Spring's harbinger
 In every soft wind blowing;

It wakens in a daintier bed
 Than Adonais lay in;
Blue violets around it spread
 Young ferns for it to stray in.

Among the tangled mat of green
 In the lush wealth of summer,
Close bending down, my spring I've seen,
 And heard its happy murmur.

When falls the dreamy Autumn haze
 Thro' which the wood's bright glory
Glows like a mighty altar's blaze
 In some old Eastern story,—

I've heard its crooning voice beneath
 The "woodland gold's" wild flutter,
As tho' it knew of sleep and death,
 Sweet things it could not utter.

Hearts like my spring sometimes we find
 In this mixed world of ours;
To dazzling ambitions blind,
 Seeking life's humble flowers,

Traced by the blessings that they bring
 Where'er their footstep passes;
As I have found my hillside spring
 Betrayed by greener grasses.