The Mistake of Despondency

    The wail of the weary
Is an echo, prolonged, of the cold autumn blast;
    The woodlands were cheery,
    But sullen and dreary
Their skeletons creak as the wind hurries past; 
    They mutter low treason.
Despair and denial to souls that are sick, –
    True souls, that by reason
Of over-much life wear their flesh to the quick!

    O tenderly, sadly
The worn spirit catches the wail of the wood!
    From the blue it would gladly
    Drink faith, – and yet madly
Quaffs doubt from the black tarn where death-shadows brood;
    And a treacherous whisper
Steals up from the sea, and a smile, bitter cold,
    Makes the leaden sky crisper
With mockery sunshine that chills to behold!

    Nay, desolate mourner!
Thou wrong’st the great mother, imparting thy grief,
    And mak’st her forlorner
    Than gales that have torn her.
And strewn her fair garments of blossom and leaf
    No doubt, no denial
Invades her strong heart through the frost of her sod;
    In her stormiest trial
Life throbs at the core from the pulses of God.

    The death thou deplorest
Is sleep and renewal in breezes more bland;
    No leaf of the forest
    When smitten the sorest
Unlocks the tight clasp of its tremulous hand
    Till a new bud is moulded,
The baby New Summer asleep, in the plush
    Of its green mantle folded,
To wake at the call of the blue-bird and thrush.

    Like Nature maternal, 
Fold-in your tired forces to passionless sleep;
    The death-trance hibernal
    Is mask of a vernal
Life-angel at work in the dark and the deep;
    A wakening resplendent
Shall break the long slumber, and power from his tomb
    Rise to labors transcendent,
Unfolding as simply as buds into bloom.