It seems as though Spring’s light and waving leaves
Were part of youth alone;
As though the shadows, dancing by the eaves
In shifting web on wall and window thrown,
Forgot how nature weaves.
Still throbs the chorus of the birds content,
Still, clouded with the may,
Cream-white, the hedges trail their load of scent,
Winding along the border of the way,
The same, yet different.
It seems as though the pear-tree’s bridal veil
Had lost its fluttered lace;
The butterflies that dart their splendour frail
Through sun and blossom in their endless chase
On duller pinions sail.
What joy has faded out from field and tree?
What glamour from the air?
Are not the cowslips grouped as cunningly,
Whispering together like young maidens fair
To wait the errant bee?
All, all the hues that Springtime ever wore
Return as fair again;
The ribes hangs its tassels as of yore,
Pungent and sweet beneath the dropping rain
At every cottage door.
But what is lost? Nay, naught from nature’s flow
Of magic infinite;
Unchanged the earth, the skies of long ago--
Yet, once we saw them through the morning light
And now the sun is low.
❦