ARBOR DA Y MAXUAL. 45 



THE AWAKENING YEAR. 



THE bluebirds and the violets 

 Are with us once again, 

 And promises of summer spot 

 The hillside and the plain. 



The clouds around the mountain tops 



Are riding on the breeze, 

 Their trailing azure trains of mist 



Are tangled in the trees. 



The snow-drifts, which have lain so long 



Haunting the hidden nooks, 

 Like guilty ghosts have slipped away 



Unseen, into the brooks. 



The streams are fed with generous rains. 



They drink the wayside springs, 

 And flutter down from crag to crag, 



Upon their foamy wings. 



Through all the long, wet nights they brawl. 



By mountain homes remote, 

 Till woodmen in their sleep behold 



Their ample rafts afloat. 



The lazy wheel that hung so dry 



Above the idle stream, 

 Whirls wildly in the misty dark, 



And through the miller's dream. 



Loud torrent unto torrent calls, 



Till at the mountain's feet, 

 Flashing afar their spectral light, 



The noisy waters meet. 



They meet, and through the lowlands sweep 



Toward briny bay and lake, 

 Proclaiming to the distant towns, 



"The country is awake." 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 



THE moon shines bright: In such a night as this, 

 When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 

 And they did make no noise. 



MERCHANT OF VENICE, Act V, Sc. i. 



