Church and Spring

The iron-clad sea, into which

Flowering lights heave themselves,

Murmurs unitelligble prayers

For the land veiled in roseate mist

Of the sunset. Hilltops in joyful

blossom welcome the flowering king;

The usurper of the night, Spring!

And thereupon the hillside, laying

In cold shade, meek and alone;

Forever young is the church on

Yon hill; an alter of a memory,

A spirit woefully unmourned by

By moon an' sun. This solemn

Martyr, mute in its suffering an'

Peaceful in its sleep, welcomes

The Spring leaves which crown

It in manifold shades of greene.

Brass bell stilled, ever mute,

Rotten the cross; the altar desecrated,

Blanketed in vengeful moss.

The walls echo prayer still;

The funeral choir sings, lulls

The living, calms the dead,

And ever-young blossoms

Spring, lays the church upon

Its flower-bed; kisses it with

Starlit rain, caresses it with

Luke-warm winds - golden

Light shines upon the bell,

And, for a moment, a chime

Echoes the forest...