PUSSY WILLOW AND CATKINS. 25 



The world in its mirror hangs beautifully bright ; 



The patriarch clouds in curled raiment that lazily 

 Lift their bare foreheads in dazzling bright light, 



In that deep under-sky glimmer softly and hazily. 



Far over the trees, or in glimpses between, 



Peer the steeples and half-hidden roofs of the village. 



Here lie the broad slopes in their loveliest green ; 



There, crested with orchards, or checkered with tillage. 



There the pmes, tall and black, in the blue morning air; 



The warehouse of ice. a vast windowless castle ; 

 The ash and the sycamore, shadeless and bare ; 



The elm-boughs in blossom, the willows in tassel. 



In golden effulgence of leafage and blooms, 

 Far along, overleaning, the sunshiny willows 



Advance like a surge from the grove's deeper glooms, — 

 The first breaking swell of the Summer's green billows. 



Scarce a tint upon hornbeam or sumach appears, 

 The arrowhead tarries, the lily still lingers ; 



But the flag-leaves are piercing the wave with their 

 spears. 

 And the fern is unfolding its infantile fingers. 



