Show me, in a house all green,
Save for long gold wedges' sheen,
Where the flies, white sparks of fire,
Dart and hover and aspire,
And the leaves, air-stirred on high,
Feel such joy they needs must sigh,
And the untracked grass makes sweet
All fair flowers to touch thy feet,
And the bees about them hum.
All the world is waiting. Come!
A WINTER SONG.
Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn--
Night is the time for the old to die--
But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn,
When the hind that was sick unscathed went by.
Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore
(Night is the time when the old must die),
Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more,
For heart is failing: the end is nigh."
"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried
(Night is the time for the old to die),
"Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide"--
Dark was the welkin and wild the sky.
Heavily plunged from the roof the snow--
(Night is the time when the old will die),
She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go.
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