The Place

Blossoms as old as May I scatter here, And a blue wave I lifted from the stream. It shall not know when winter days are drear Or March is hoarse with blowing. But a-dream The laurel boughs shall hold a canopy Peacefully over it the winter long, Till all the birds are back from oversea, And April rainbows win a blackbird's song.

And when the war is over I shall take My lute a-down to it and sing again Songs of the whispering things amongst the brake, And those I love shall know them by their strain. Their airs shall be the blackbird's twilight song, Their words shall be all flowers with fresh dews hoar.-- But it is lonely now in winter long, And, God! to hear the blackbird sing once more.