CRY out against the slough of hindering years,

The importunity of oozy hours,—

Their Stygian marsh of stagnancy and fears,—

Those dreary banks' unscented hue less flowers.

I know another climate where you dwell,

Enwalled with crystal air forever young

.... Whose words like apple-blossoms gently fell,

But print no scar, leave no remorseful tongue.

Winged calm of hours gliding so softly on,—

The shaped intention of each lovely thing,—

Cast but a wavering image where you shone,

O drop one feather from your dreams hot wing.