Parables, 2

A MAGIC circle holds me round, to-day, —
The air is vital with the young, sweet Spring;
In the fresh wind the leaves and grasses sing;
The songs of birds are blown from spray to spray;
The time is pure, and ardent, and how gay!
Now falls the saintly dusk; low whispering
The gentle wind goes by with flagging wing,
The sun to follow, on his downward way.

Great quietude of moonlight holds the land;
Now if one word I whisper to the air,
If one way turn, or even reach my hand,
The spell is broken, and my Spring to scare
Comes Winter back, and shivering I stand,
Once more the old blast of his old winds to bear.