The Voice Of Spring

I HEARD the voice of Spring—I saw her look Out of the naked wood, and, on the green, Traced the frail pattern of her steps unseen, Toward Winter’s house which he this day forsook: There she hath turned the leaves of Time’s sad book, Seeking the songs, well-nigh forgotten clean By faltering birds in Winter’s dark demesne, O’erborne by bitter winds that none may brook.

Art thou so near! And we still all unmeet To give thee welcome? Due with service clear From dull world’s slavery, and sordid taint, The soil and rust of cities, spirits faint— O fill us with new life, and give us cheer, Whom life’s best gifts—Art, Love, and Freedom greet.