With patient strength their branches arch,

Not as unmindful of the breeze

That makes midsummer melodies,{29}

{29}

But knowing Spring a fickle maid,

And that rough days must dawn and fade

Before, all blossoming bright, they stand

In sight of Summer’s Promised Land.

{30}

{30}

The Blind Man

THE blind man at his window bars

T

Stands in the morning dewy dim;

The lily-footed dawn, the stars

That wait for it, are naught to him.

And naught to his unseeing eyes

The brownness of a sunny plain,

Where worn and drowsy August lies,

And wakens but to sleep again.

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