[Illustration: text decoration] I will be glad because it is the Spring; I will forget the winter in my heart-- Dead hopes and withered promise; and will wring A little joy from life ere life depart. For spendthrift youth with passion-blinded eyes, Stays not to see how woods and fields are bright; He hears the phantom voices call, he flies Upon the track of some unknown delight. To him the tender glory of the May, White wonder of the blossom, and the clear, Soft green of leaves that opened yesterday, This only say: Forward, my friend, not here! They breathe no other messages than this, They have no other meaning for his heart; Unto his troubled sense they tell of bliss, Which make, themselves, of bliss the better part. Yea, joy is near him, tho’ he does not know; Her unregarded shape is at his side, Her unheard voice is whispering clear and low, Whom, resting never, seeks he far and wide. So once it was with us, my heart! To-day We will be glad because the leaves are green, Because the fields are fair and soft with May, Nor think on squandered springtimes that have been. _On the Wye in May._ [Illustration: text decoration] Now is the perfect moment of the year. Half naked branches, half a mist of green, Vivid and delicate the slopes appear; The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen, And in the temperate sun we feel no fear; Of all the hours which shall be and have been, It is the briefest as it is most dear, It is the dearest as the shortest seen. O it was best, belovèd, at the first.-- Our hands met gently, and our meeting sight Was steady; on our senses scare had burst The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight.... I seek that clime, unknown, without a name, Where first and best and last shall be the same. _Oh, is it Love?_ [Illustration: text decoration] O Is it Love or is it Fame, This thing for which I sigh? Or has it then no earthly name For men to call it by? I know not what can ease my pains, Nor what it is I wish; The passion at my heart-strings strains Like a tiger in a leash. _In the Nower._ TO J. DE P. Deep in the grass outstretched I lie, Motionless on the hill; Above me is a cloudless sky, Around me all is still: There is no breath, no sound, no stir, The drowsy peace to break; I close my tired eyes--it were So simple not to wake. _The End of the Day._ TO B. T. Dead-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid day Fails and slackens and fades away.-- The sky that was so blue before With sudden clouds is shrouded o’er. Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise, Till blurred and grey the landscape lies. * * * * *