The Second Sunday After Easter: Poem by Francis Joseph Sherman

“Hearken! Afar on the hills, at last is it surely spring?
Have the sudden mayflowers awakened to see what the wind can


bring?
There, in the bare high branches, does a robin try to sing?

“O Life, why—now thou art fair and full of the promise of peace—
Oh, why dost thou shudder away, away from me, begging release,
As the dead leaves falter and flutter and fall when the warm winds cease?

“As the dead leaves fall from the trees. O Life, must thou hurry


away?
Behold, it is spring upon earth, and tomorrow the month will be
May;
And the southmost boughs shall grow green that were barren but
Yesterday.

“And I, even I, shall grow young once more; and my face shall be
fair,—
Yea, fair as still waters at even, under the starlight there;
And all of the glory of dawn shall be seen once again in my hair.


“And yet, and yet, who will see? Were it true that all things should
be so,
What joy could we have of it ever? Time bringeth new visions; and
lo,
One may not remember in April how autumn was kind, long ago!



“O desolate years! are you over at last with your devious ways?
Nay, I should say, ‘Let me go from you gladly, giving you praise


For the least of the things I remember of you rand the least of your
days.’

“Giving thanks for the noises of Earth—little noises—when April is
born;
For the smell of the roses in June, for the gleam of the yellowing
corn;
For the sight of the sea at even, the sight of the sea at morn.

“And most—most of all—for the old fighting days! (O La Tour, are


they past?)
For the sound of beleaguering cannon, the sight of the foe fleeing fast.
Yea, and though at the end we have fallen, even now I am glad at the last!



“How good it is here in the sun! O strong, sweet sound of the sea,
Do you sorrow that now I must go? Have you pity to waste upon me
Who may tarry no longer beside you, whom Time is about to set


free?

“Nay, sorrow nor pity at all. See, I am more glad than a queen
For the joy I have had of you living! Had the things that we know
never been,
You and I then had reason for sorrow, O Sea—had our eyes
never seen!

“Come close to me now,—past the weed-covered rocks, up the
gray of the sand;
Here is a path I have made for you, hollowed it out with my hand;


Come, I would whisper a word to you, Sea, he may never
withstand:

“‘Where our garden goes down to the sea’s edge (remember?—
O France, thou art fair!)
Renewing those old royal days, of all else careless now, unaware,
Among the remembering lilies her soul abides patiently there.’”

Analysis of this poem