The Journey.

A BREEZY softness in the air
That clasped the gentle hand of spring,
And yet no brooklet’s voice did sing,
And all was perfect silence there,
Unless the soft light foliage waved;
Those boughs were clothed in shining green,
Through which ne’er angry tempests raved,
And sunlight shone between.

Beneath an oak a palmer lay,
Upon the green sward was his bed,
And rich luxuriance bound the gray,
The silver laurel round his head.
A picture he of calm repose,
A dateless monument of life,
Too placid for the fear of woes,
Too grateful to be worn by strife;
I should have passed,—he bade me stay,
And tranquilly these words did say.
“O curtain of the tender spring!
Thy graces to my old eyes bring,—
The recollection of those years,
When sweet are shed our early tears;
Those days of sunny April weather,
Changeful and glad with everything,
When youth and age go linked together,
Like sisters twain and sauntering
Down mazy paths in ancient woods,
The garland of such solitudes.”