Poems (Spofford)/Candlemas
CANDLEMAS.
Like some immortal heathen thing, All fresh with bloom, with odor sweet, With brook and bird and breeze in tune, The beautiful bright earth of June Moves to the fullness of her noon,While serving sunbeams round her fling The purple violets as they fleet.
But when the winter's feathery rime Plumes every leaf and every spray, And the deep skies about her close, With morning's saffron, evening's rose, Sparkling along her stainless snows,So some great spirit, done with time, Takes into space its white-winged way.