Northern Spring

Meadow and woodland
Dwindle away,
Delicate azure in
Delicate day.
An infinite ocean of
Wave-like woods ;
Old elms remember
Earlier moods,
A young leaf- rapture
On their gnarled boughs ;
Thorns sing a carol of
Soft May-snows ;
The young laburnum
Overvvells,
With peals of bloom from
Inaudible bells ;
Sweet peals of laughter of
Noiseless gold
His leafy bowers
Delight to hold !
A crimson May-foam
Flushes fair,
Soft yellow falls in a
Blithe blue air.
Daisies and kingcups !
Children's flowers !
They wander, and pull them,
Hours on hours ;
A childish laughter
Delights the day.
Sweet heavens are happier,
While they play ;
Golden boats of the
Kingcups float.
The voice of the cuckoo is
Heard remote,
With voice of the turtle,
Sounds so mild.
They breathe of the spring-time,
Earth's young child ;
They breathe of the Peace at the
Heart of things,
Who hath taken the wide world
Under Her wings.
They tell of my boyhood.
They tell of my boy.
They tell of him folded
Beyond annoy ;
The groves are a cloudland
Of glowing green.
With borders embosomed in
Warmer sheen.

I who longed for the whispering cool of the grove
Stole to the valley of verdurous gloom.
Where a nightingale sings evermore to his love.
As though man knew no sorrow, nor earth e'er a tomb.
A bird hath a nest in a twilight of leaves,
All woven of mosses, and lichen and down ;
An eye there is glistening, a bosom there heaves ;
You may see there love's miracle, when she hath flown —
Four delicate ovals, flecked faintly with wine —
She is guarding the mystical marvel of life,
The wind-flower illumines her bowery shrine,
And the pale flame of primrose around her is rife.
But the nightingale sings! how he sings!
what a song !
Clear water that falls, or meanders in day ;
From a smooth stem of sound, that is mellow and long.
Notes of fountainous blossom are lavished in play;
And one of his delicate silvery measures
Recalls one who whips a clear watery glass ;
My springs and my summers, aerial pleasures,
A fair haze, while I hearken, how fleetingly pass !
And O what a soft-pleached musical woof
The innumerous melody weaveth in air !
More subtle and rich than the verdurous roof
Of foliage marrying over me fair.
Ye enwind with your music, enmeshed, flushed with bloom !
I am sheathed, like a chrj'salid silken, with joy ;
I forget that the world hath a grief or a gloom.
Ye scatter your songs on the grave of my boy.
Ah ! where are the conflict, the care and the pain,
The cruelty, feebleness, folly, or sin ?
O Philomel ! pour your melodious rain !
Open your Paradise ! welcome me in !
O lark, wild with ecstasy ! lost in the light.
We are ever afar from your shadowless land !
Our Philomel, she is more near to our night,
More nigh to her gloaming of green we stand.
For whih her song-pulses may vie with the stars,
We have known in the clear, limpid airs of the South,
She hath one long low burden akin to our tears,
Wherein joy lieth hid for renewal of youth,
Deliciously low, like a plaining flute.
Or water in moonlight, of silent foot.
Philomel is a child of the daylight and dark ;
Where the willow-leaf bathes in the flame of the moon.
She sings ; all the night listens ; not to the lark
Will a sorrowful heart of men turn for a tune !
And I think that the world, if it hold such a gladness,
Must be sound to the core, whatsoever befall:
Our birds, for all wrong, sorrow, wildering madness.
Do but echo young hearts in the heaven, who know all !