HOW well her many secrets nature keeps
And never tells to us by word or sign,—
The hidden source whence comes life-giving wine
Which through the trees in springtime tingling creeps;
The dwelling-place from which the wind low sweeps,
His stalwart forest legions to align
With leadership of giant oak or pine—
She tells us not but, brooding silent, sleeps.
So, safely locked within the human heart,
Are joys and sorrows of the long ago,
As hidden springs from which the sad tears start
When we scarce know the power that movers their flow;
And we from all the world are set apart
By precious secrets none may ever know.