THE seed that wasteful autumn cast br To waver on its stormy blast, br Long o'er the wintry desert tost, br Its living germ has never lost. br Dropped by the weary tempest's wing, br It feels the kindling ray of spring, br And, starting from its dream of death, br Pours on the air its perfumed breath. br br So, parted by the rolling flood, br The love that springs from common blood br Needs but a single sunlit hour br Of mingling smiles to bud and flower; br Unharmed its slumbering life has flown, br From shore to shore, from zone to zone, br Where summer's falling roses stain br The tepid waves of Pontchartrain, br Or where the lichen creeps below br Katahdin's wreaths of whirling snow.