For the roof overhead of the pines is astir with delight as of
jubilant voices,
And the floor underfoot of the bracken and heather alive as a heart
that rejoices.
For the house that was childless awhile, and the light of it
darkened, the pulse of it dwindled,
Rings radiant again with a child's bright feet, with the light of
his face is rekindled.
And the ways of the meadows that knew him, the sweep of the down
that the sky's belt closes,
Grow gladder at heart than the soft wind made them whose feet were
but fragrant with roses,
Though the fall of the year be upon us, who trusted in June and by
June were defrauded,
And the summer that brought us not back the desire of our eyes be
gone hence unapplauded.
For July came joyless among us, and August went out from us arid
and sterile,
And the hope of our hearts, as it seemed, was no more than a flower
that the seasons imperil,
And the joy of our hearts, as it seemed, than a thought which
regret had not heart to remember,
Till four dark months overpast were atoned for, and summer began in
September.
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