The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.

Tertius and Henry van Dyke.

November, 1903.

 SPRING IN THE NORTH

I

 Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, Why the sweet Spring delays, And where she hides,—the dear desire Of every heart that longs For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire Of maple-buds along the misty hills, And that immortal call which fills The waiting wood with songs? The snow-drops came so long ago, It seemed that Spring was near! But then returned the snow With biting winds, and earth grew sere, And sullen clouds drooped low To veil the sadness of a hope deferred: Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain Beat on the window-pane, Through which I watched the solitary bird That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed With rumpled feathers down the wind again. Oh, were the seeds all lost When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb? I searched the woods in vain For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white, And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight, Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom. But every night the frost To all my longing spoke a silent nay, And told me Spring was far away. Even the robins were too cold to sing, Except a broken and discouraged note,— Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat Music has put her triple finger-print, Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,— “Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!”

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,

Why the sweet Spring delays,

And where she hides,—the dear desire

Of every heart that longs

For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire

Of maple-buds along the misty hills,

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