WILD AZALEA. 



Whence is the sacred music of the wood, 



The clear, the tireless tone? 

 Thro misty ways we blindly grope 

 To catch the earliest signs of hope, 

 Sun or shade or restless wind, 

 Whatso pleasures we may find, 

 We are here alone. 



A sudden presence stirs the solemn wood, 



A secret not its own, 

 A youthful light, an open grace, 

 An equal strength in every place, 

 And, far up the steep ascent, 

 Warmth and quick desire are lent 



Where we wait alone ! 



O far away in yonder leafy copse 



The wandering thrush has flown, 

 And close along the wooded steep 

 We know an influence passing deep, 

 The Summer light, the Summer tone, 

 The rare azalea makes her own, 

 And we are not alone ! 



44 



