Which yet joined not scent to hue, Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal sun. Percy Bysshe Shelley Diffugere nives, redeunt iam gramina campis Arboribusque comae. Now the North wind ceases, The warm South-West awakes; Horace SPRING FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW PORN is the winter rug of white, WORN And in the snow-bare spots once more Glimpses of faint green grass in sight,— Spring's footprints on the floor. Upon the sombre forest gates A crimson flush the mornings catch, The token of the Spring who waits With finger on the latch. Blow, bugles of the south, and win The warders from their dreams too long, She shall make bright the dismal ways Her face is lovely with the sun; The silence of the year is done: Spring here, by what magician's touch? Frank Dempster Sherman |