Classic Poem

A GENTLE tumult in the earth,
A murmur in the trees,
An odor faint, but passing sweet,
Upon the morning breeze, —
The heralds these, whom thou dost send,
Dear Spring, that we may know
How soon the land, from side to side,
Shall with thy beauty glow.

And 'tis by tokens faint as these,
O Truth, that makest free!
That thou dost give assurance strong
Of better things to be:
Of higher faith and holier trust;
Of love more deep and wide;
Of hope, whose anchor shall not break,
Whatever storms betide!

O Truth of God, it is not ours
Thy Summer to foretell,
Nor ours to taste the fruit which now
Doth in the blossom swell;
But we are glad, and free of heart,
That we Thy Spring have known:
Well speed the days whose sweetest praise
Is to be called Thine own.