Another Spring.

E'en to Demeter, in another Spring,
Sicilian plains were fair.
The flower-washed air
Laved softly her bruised being, long to bear
The spirit's sting
E'er she knew peace
Under the dimming glory the skies wear.

Unsatisfied, the honour of a race
Uprears a twisted pride;
In the Earth's side
Essays to thrust a dagger; cannot hide
The Earth's face,
The pools of peace
Her eyes are, the benison—that men cried.

One lovely thing shatters an ugly spell,
One rose, one shell, a leaf,
In itself brief
But spinning out ever the web. Slow the grief
The days tell
But swift for peace
Beauty that flowers, heart's balm, thought's relief.

—E.G.W.

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