Nothing is so
beautiful as spring—
When
weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s
eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing
timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes
like lightnings to hear him sing;
The
glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The
descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the
racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this
juice and all this joy?
A strain
of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden
garden.—Have, get, before it cloy,
Before
it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and
Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O
maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
Spring (1918)
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