Eternal in the brooding of the old Norwegian spruces
I hear the wistful tenderness of loves They used to know,
And in the swelling wood-notes that the eager springtide looses
Sobs again Their heart-break from the Springs of Long Ago:
And sometime, thro’ the silence, with the April shadows lying
Aslant the solemn acre where I take my dreamless rest,
Perhaps the stifled need of You my heart was ever crying
Will find its way across the years--to stir a stranger’s breast!
_The Poetry Journal_ _Ruth Guthrie Harding_