LXXXIII

A woman sat by the hearth, 
And a man looked out at the door.

"O lover, I hear a sound 
As of approaching storm, 
When the sea makes in from the north

With thunder and chafing and might, 
And trundles the quaking ground."

"It is not the sea you hear. 
The ice in the river is loosed; 
You hear its grinding mills

Wearing the winter away, 
And the grist of grief and cold

Shall soon be the meal of joy. 
O heart of me, April is here!"

"O lover, I hear a sigh

As of the boding wind 
In the murmurous black pines, 
Or a stir as of beating wings 
When the fleeing curlews fly."

"It is not the wind's great hum;

O heart of mine, April is come!"

"O lover, my heart aches sore; 
My hands would fondle your hair, 
My cheek be laid to your cheek;
A strange new wild great word

Our lives unfold and get free, 
As the streams and the creatures do, 
To range through the April now."

Like a gold spring-flower in his arms,
She stood by the open door.