Songs Of The Spring Days

I.         A gentle wind, of western birth         On some far summer sea,         Wakes daisies in the wintry earth,         Wakes hopes in wintry me.         The sun is low; the paths are wet,         And dance with frolic hail;         The trees--their spring-time is not yet--         Swing sighing in the gale.         Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;         Clouds shoulder in between;         I scarce believe one coming day         The earth will all be green.         The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,         And flaps his snowy wing:         Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves;         Thou canst not bar our spring.         II.         Up comes the primrose, wondering;         The snowdrop droopeth by;         The holy spirit of the spring         Is working silently.         Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile         The later children out;         O'er woods and farms a sunny smile         Is flickering about.         The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull;         To death almost she slept:         Over her, heaven grew beautiful,         And forth her beauty crept.         Showers yet must fall, and waters grow         Dark-wan with furrowing blast;         But suns will shine, and soft winds blow,         Till the year flowers at last.         III.         The sky is smiling over me,         Hath smiled away the frost;         White daisies star the sky-like lea,         With buds the wood's embossed.         Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky         Up through the latticed boughs;         Till comes the green cloud by and by,         It is not time to house.         Yours is the day, sweet bird--sing on;         The winter is forgot;         Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone:         Pain that is past, is not.         Joy that was past is yet the same:         If care the summer brings,         'Twill only be another name         For love that broods, not sings.         IV.         Blow on me, wind, from west and south;         Sweet summer-spirit, blow!         Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth,         Who knows not what I know.         The earth's perfection dawneth soon;         Ours lingereth alway;         We have a morning, not a noon;         Spring, but no summer gay.         Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn         Crown soon the swift year's life:         In us a higher hope is born,         And claims a longer strife.         Will heaven be an eternal spring         With summer at the door?         Or shall we one day tell its king         That we desire no more?