WHEN UNDER THE ICY EAVES
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hen under the icy eavesThe swallow heralds the sun,And the dove for its lost mate grievesAnd the young lambs play and run;When the sea is a plane of glass,And the blustering winds are still,And the strength of the thin snows passIn mists o'er the tawny hill--The spirit of life awakesIn the fresh flags by the lakes. When the sick man seeks the air,And the graves of the dead grow green,Where the children play unawareOf the faces no longer seen;When all we have felt or can feel,And all we are or have been,And all the heart can hide or reveal,Knocks gently, and enters in:--The spirit of life awakes,In the fresh flags by the lakes.
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