Spring Thoughts
Swift speeds my spirit to the west
When Spring brings in the hours, -
Those merry girls in blossoms drest
That laugh through sunswept showers, -
There would I watch earth, sea, and air
Pour forth their richest dowers.
Oh! let me from the highest peak
St. Michael's rears on high,
Hail the first gleams that herald Spring
And first her footsteps spy;
Trust me, 'tis there men soonest feel
Her warm breath flood the sky!
Blue ripples wash Tintagel's rocks,
Blue cloudlets float above;
Old memories of "the Flower of Kings"
On each soft zephyr move,
Or else bold Tristram sighs once more
For white-armed Iseult's love.
But dearer than these storied scenes
To me some lonely dell,
Where greenest ferns and golden gorse
O'erhang a mossy cell,
And all night long by ling'ring stars
The pixies foot it well.
And far beneath let shining streams
Flow slumberous to the sea;
Whose lightest murmurs echoing haunt
Dark rock or quivering tree,
Than which not Fairyland's low lutes
Yield sweeter witchery!
And then with morn the thrush shall pipe
His welcome to young May
The blackbird trill a cheery note
To lengthen out the day,
Till drowsy night from yonder hill
Come back to stop his lay.
There, where the violets nestle down
Beneath the thorn-flowers' snow
I'll watch the gleeful swallows' glance,
Their shadows come and go;
Or pluck the pale pure primrose, first
Of Spring's wild flowers to blow.
And buried years shall rise once more,
Once more shall bud life's spring;
I'll think old thoughts, and dream the dreams
That erst bright hopes could bring,
And loving eyes shall ope that sleep
Folded 'neath death's dark wing. M.G.W.
When Spring brings in the hours, -
Those merry girls in blossoms drest
That laugh through sunswept showers, -
There would I watch earth, sea, and air
Pour forth their richest dowers.
Oh! let me from the highest peak
St. Michael's rears on high,
Hail the first gleams that herald Spring
And first her footsteps spy;
Trust me, 'tis there men soonest feel
Her warm breath flood the sky!
Blue ripples wash Tintagel's rocks,
Blue cloudlets float above;
Old memories of "the Flower of Kings"
On each soft zephyr move,
Or else bold Tristram sighs once more
For white-armed Iseult's love.
But dearer than these storied scenes
To me some lonely dell,
Where greenest ferns and golden gorse
O'erhang a mossy cell,
And all night long by ling'ring stars
The pixies foot it well.
And far beneath let shining streams
Flow slumberous to the sea;
Whose lightest murmurs echoing haunt
Dark rock or quivering tree,
Than which not Fairyland's low lutes
Yield sweeter witchery!
And then with morn the thrush shall pipe
His welcome to young May
The blackbird trill a cheery note
To lengthen out the day,
Till drowsy night from yonder hill
Come back to stop his lay.
There, where the violets nestle down
Beneath the thorn-flowers' snow
I'll watch the gleeful swallows' glance,
Their shadows come and go;
Or pluck the pale pure primrose, first
Of Spring's wild flowers to blow.
And buried years shall rise once more,
Once more shall bud life's spring;
I'll think old thoughts, and dream the dreams
That erst bright hopes could bring,
And loving eyes shall ope that sleep
Folded 'neath death's dark wing. M.G.W.
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