LXXXIII

THE springtime’s pallid landscape

Will glow like bright bouquet,

Though drifted deep in parian

The village lies to-day.

 

The lilacs, bending many a year,

With purple load will hang;

The bees will not forget the time

Their old forefathers sang.

 

The rose will redden in the bog,

The aster on the hill

Her everlasting fashion set,

And covenant gentians frill,

 

Till summer folds her miracle

As women do their gown,

Or priests adjust the symbols

When sacrament is done.