How glad they are to live. We think if some one loved us too Our hearts would break to prove By all that we could say or do, How glad we were to love! E. Nesbit. Dream footsteps wandering past us in our sleep, Dream A restless presence stirring with the light, The cry of waters where the snow was white, A violet’s whisper where dead leaves lay deep; The dim wood’s music makes a sudden leap, Broken notes, blending in a wild delight, And lo! the whole world changes in our sight. Promise is ended—we must turn and reap Fulfilment, for the Spring with all her wealth Is with us, and compels us to her will. Yet if the sun-dawn we should shun by stealth
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