April, 1885

Wanton with long delay the gay spring leaping cometh; The blackthorn starreth now his bough on the eve of May: All day in the sweet box-tree the bee for pleasure hummeth: The cuckoo sends afloat his note on the air all day.

Now dewy nights again and rain in gentle shower At root of tree and flower have quenched the winter's drouth: On high the hot sun smiles, and banks of cloud uptower In bulging heads that crowd for miles the dazzling south.

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Gáy Róbin is seen no more: He is gone with the snow, For winter is o'er And Robin will go. In need he was fed, and now he is fled Away to his secret nest. No more will he stand Begging for crumbs, No longer he comes Beseeching our hand And showing his breast At window and door:-- Gay Robin is seen no more.

Blithe Robin is heard no more: He gave us his song When summer was o'er And winter was long: He sang for his bread and now he is fled Away to his secret nest. And there in the green Early and late Alone to his mate He pipeth unseen And swelleth his breast; For us it is o'er:-- Blithe Robin is heard no more.

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Spring goeth all in white, Crowned with milk-white may: In fleecy flocks of light O'er heaven the white clouds stray:

White butterflies in the air; White daisies prank the ground: The cherry and hoary pear Scatter their snow around.

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My eyes for beauty pine, My soul for Goddës grace: No other care nor hope is mine; To heaven I turn my face.

One splendour thence is shed From all the stars above: 'Tis namèd when God's name is said, 'Tis Love, 'tis heavenly Love.

And every gentle heart, That burns with true desire, Is lit from eyes that mirror part Of that celestial fire.

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O Love, my muse, how was't for me Among the best to dare, In thy high courts that bowed the knee With sacrifice and prayer?

Their mighty offerings at thy shrine Shamed me, who nothing bore Their suits were mockeries of mine, I sued for so much more.

Full many I met that crowned with bay In triumph home returned, And many a master on the way Proud of the prize I scorned.

I wished no garland on my head Nor treasure in my hand; My gift the longing that me led, My prayer thy high command,

My love, my muse; and when I spake Thou mad'st me thine that day, And more than hundred hearts could take Gav'st me to bear away.

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Love on my heart from heaven fell, Soft as the dew on flowers of spring, Sweet as the hidden drops that swell Their honey-throated chalicing.

Now never from him do I part, Hosanna evermore I cry: I taste his savour in my heart, And bid all praise him as do I.

Without him noughtsoever is, Nor was afore, nor e'er shall be: Nor any other joy than his Wish I for mine to comfort me.

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The hill pines were sighing, O'ercast and chill was the day: A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May.

But deep in the glen's bosom Summer slept in the fire Of the odorous gorse-blossom And the hot scent of the brier.

A ribald cuckoo clamoured, And out of the copse the stroke Of the iron axe that hammered The iron heart of the oak.

Anon a sound appalling, As a hundred years of pride Crashed, in the silence falling: And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.

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