Poem by Ina Donna Coolbrith

The Lost Note

IN winter-time one steadfast hope I had:
When rains should cease to fall,
And earth re-summon all
Her blossom-guests, I should again be glad.

And then, my heart unlifted still, I said,
Too pallid and too chill
These skies, wait yet until
The summer's serene blue smiles overhead.

Its red the rose surrenders to the leaves;
The orchard branches yield
Their fruit, and far afield
The reapers sing amid their gathered sheaves.

The circle of the year is all complete;
And in its wintry hour,
In fruitage or in flower,
I know the world is very fair and sweet.

I know that not from land, or sky, or sea,
The restless spirit takes
Its sombre hues, and makes
A discord of God's golden harmony.

Within, some false note jars the perfect strain
The great Musician meant. . . .
O bird of lost content,
Come back, and build, and brood, and sing again!

1. The Captive of the White City
2. Two
3. Bret Harte (A stir of pines in the forest)
4. Meadowlarks
5. The Day of Our Lord

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