A New Voice

by Rose Terry Cooke

The south-wind blows a wakeful blast,
The hot noon sunshine beams at last,
And something says, -- the past is past.

Come, crocus, from the trodden clay!
Forgotten there for many a day,
Put on thy shining, gold array.

There is no life for death and pain;
There is a new life for the brain
That hears the whispers of the rain.

Dream, crocus, in thy bed of mould;
Feel dimly for thy crown of gold!
The fairy-tale shall yet be told.

What if thy lips are cold with fear,
Thy white lids blanched with many a tear?
Awake! an echo wandereth here.

Awake, awake! I hear those calls,
Soft as the desert dew that falls
To stir the acacia's yellow balls.

Love, there is love! For thee too, Spring
Shall a new promise-anthem bring;
Thou art not a forgotten thing.

The shadow of thy bridal veil,
The anguish of the nightingale,
Heaven's passion-fever, makes thee pale;

Though not about thy blue-veined brows
They weave Sicilian orange-boughs;
For thine are all immortal vows.

The Spirit, sun-winged and divine,
That fills the earth-veins full of wine,
And shoots to heaven the bacchant vine, --

The Spirit of all growth and power,
Whose breath informs the sleeping flower,
And speeds the Spring's triumphant hour, --

Creative, jubilant, serene,
Wearing to man a various mien,
Yet true as midnight's crescent queen, --

Unknown of men, yet known to thee, --
Beyond a dim and dawn-lit sea,
That living Spirit stays for thee.

Awake! arise! thy wings begin
To stir their slumberous plumes within:
Hark! -- hear'st the bride-song stealing in?