Spring
Soft comes the breath of spring, it shakes the pear
White blooming; like a garden seems the mead
Thick with young grass, on which the cattle feed
Tossing their heads at their dull wintry fare.
The bees seek honey through the moving air
That rocks the wild-duck on her nest of reed,
By the sunlit water: Man doth say "God speed,"
For joy the year's increase so soon to share,
Low, to himself he says it; where, alas,
Are the old rites? a dullard race are we;
Clear shows of inner feeling fade and pass;
There are no pomps to greet Eiarine.
Our hearts reflect as a smoke-darkened glass,
When like a prison of crystal they should be.