No clouds at dawn, but as the sun climbed | From the low sun the rain-fringe swept higher, White columns, thunderous, splendid, up the sky Floated and stood, heaped in his steady fire, aside, And wide a splendor streamed through all the sky; O'er sea and land one soft, delicious blush, That touched the gray rocks lightly, tenderly; A transitory flush. WILLIAM MORRIS. HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL. vain, 297! And still and bright the evening star | The bitter wind makes not thy victory Twinkles above the golden bar That in the west lies quietly. O, steadfastly the sparrow sings, And sweet the sound; and sweet the Of wooing winds; and sweet the sight But while so clear the sparrow sings The crashing of the riven wreck, And sounds of agony and fear. How is it that the birds can sing? Life is so full of bitter pain; Woe is so long and joy so brief; Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry Make April ready for the throstle's song, Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong! Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside: "He will come," the flowers whispered; "Come no more," the dry hills sighed. Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze, Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas; Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown, And at times aswift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down; Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress, And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, Comforted the maid with proverbs, — wisdom gathered from afar; Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each As a pebble worn and polished in the So in vain the barren hillsides with their current of his speech: "Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he'; "Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree.' "He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies' 'In the end God grinds the miller'; 'In the dark the mole has eyes.' "He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial hath no fear,' And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear." Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech; And on "Concha," "Conchitita," and "Conchita," he would dwell With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. gay serapes blazed, Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. |