Yet are there sunbeams, though the kingly sun...

By Anne Whitney

Yet are there sunbeams, though the kingly sun
Reveal not his full eye; yet flowers, to bear
Mute witness of the Heart that keeps the year,
Through all its wintry chill; and I have won,
Where was no face nor voice, a glance, a tone,
A spirit, call it, that all shapes doth wear,
And brings me knowledge which I scarcely dare
Call mine. Now, out of grief it sings; anon,
It calls me in another's deed or word.
Capricious is the sprite, and now will herd
With common things, now wing me wind-warm cheer
From far-off times and climates happier,
And when from distant fields I call the bird,
A quiet chirp proclaims it nested here.