I wearied of the stormy hours,
And shaped my song to murmuring words;
I longed to hear the song of birds
And watch the bloom of woodland flowers.

O waiting heart, no more complain;
The shadows fly, the morning breaks;
And, with a touch of light, God makes
A glory of the winter rain!

Where icy splendors flash and gleam
In forest depths, alone I stand:
I seem to dwell in fairy-land,
And, wondering, gaze as in a dream.

Here is the ruby's sunset dye,
The opal's blush, the diamond's flame;
And jewels rare of every name,
Thick as the stars in midnight sky.

No kingly crown is half so fair
As that which decks the pine-tree's crest;
No gems e'er shone on Beauty's breast
Like those the oak and maple wear.

The common path — in childhood known —
Transfigured now before me lies, —
A way that leads to Paradise;
An aisle with shattered rainbows strown!