George Marion McClellan

There comes to my heart from regions remote A wild desire for the hedge and the brush, Whenever I hear the first wild note Of the meadow lark and the hermit thrush.

The broken and upturned earth to the air, By a million thrusting blades of Spring, Sends out from the sod and everywhere Its pungent aromas over everything.

Then it's Oh, for the hills, the dawn, and the dew, The breath of the fields and the silent lake. And watching the wings of light burst through The scarlet blush of the new daybreak.

It is then, when the earth still nestles in sleep, And the robes of light are scarce unfurled. You can almost feel, in its mighty sweep. The onward rush and roll of the world.

Oh ! for the welcome breath of country air, With Summer skies and flowers, To shout and feel once more the halcyon Of gayer boyhood hours. I think the sight of fields and shady lanes Would ease my heart of pains.

To cool once more my thirst, where bubbled up The waters of a spring, Where I have seen the golden daffodils And lillies flourishing. My fevered heart would more than half forget Its sighs, and vain regret.

Far, far away, from early scenes am I ; And, too, my youth has fled; For me a stranger's land, a stranger's sky. That arches overhead. For scenes and joys that now have passed me by, I can but give a sigh.

When gray clouds break on southern skies And winds of March begin to blow, Our fancies run to Summer sighs, That whisper and delight us so.

For in this stormy month of winds The first new pulse of life is felt, When Spring with all her sweets begins Where Winter's ice and snow have dwelt.

The bluebird carols out his note, A prelude to the country 'round Of chimes, a few more days remote, To which the forest will resound.

The plowman's song, the forest chime. The upturned sod, the country scene, Bespeak a resurrection time In air, sky, and sprouting green.

O, blessed hope of life anew! That comes from death when Spring begins ; Life after death, a promise true. Is brought in March's stormy winds.

Creatures of gauze and velvet wings, With life for one brief day, Dancing and flitting where the breezes fling The sweets of blooming May;

Skimming the stream where the wild thyme grows, You dart with keen delight. Only to die when the sweet wild rose Gives perfume to the night.

Weary at last, when the day is done, Of the breeze and clover's breath. Folding your delicate wings with the sun, You gently drop to death;

Glimmering wings and a few short hours Were yours in sweet delight. Living for a day in the world of flowers. And then — everlasting night.

Creatures of gauze and velvet wings, With a day of gleams and flowers, Who knows — in the light of eternal things — Your life is less than ours?

Weary at last, it is ours, like you, When our brief day is done. Folding our hands, to say adieu. And pass with the setting sun.

Sewanee Hills of dear delight, Prompting my dreams that used to be, I know you are waiting me still tonight By the Unika Range of Tennessee.

The blinking stars in endless space, The broad moonlight and silvery gleams, Tonight caress your wind-swept face, And fold you in a thousand dreams.

Your far outlines, less seen than felt, Which wind with hill propensities. In moonlight dreams I see you melt Away in vague immensities.

And, far away, I still can feel Your mystery that ever speaks Of vanished things, as shadows steal Across your breast and rugged peaks.

O, dear blue hills, that lie apart, And wait so patiently down there. Your peace takes hold upon my heart And makes its burden less to bear.