’Tis the time o’ the year, if the quicken-bough be staunch, The green, like a breaker, rolls steady up the branch, And surges in the spaces, and floods the trunk, and heaves In little angry spray that is the under-white of leaves; And from the thorn in companies the foamy petals fall, And waves of jolly ivy wink along a windy wall. ’Tis the time o’ the year the marsh is full of sound, And good and glorious it is to smell the living ground. The crimson-headed catkin shakes above the pasture-bars, The daisy takes the middle field and spangles it with stars, And down the bank into the lane the primroses do crowd, All colored like the twilight moon, and spreading like a cloud! ’Tis the time o’ the year, in early light and glad, The lark has a music to drive a lover mad; The downs are dripping nightly, the breathèd damps arise, Deliciously the freshets cool the grayling’s golden eyes, And lying in a row against the chilly north, the sheep Inclose a place without a wind for tender lambs to sleep. ’Tis the time o’ the year I turn upon the height To watch from my harrow the dance of going light; And if before the sun be hid, come slowly up the vale Honora with her dimpled throat, Honora with her pail, Hey, but there ’s many a March for me, and many and many a lass! I fall to work and song again, and let Honora pass. [Illustration] _The Japanese Anemone_ ALL summer the breath of the roses around Exhales with a delicate, passionate sound; And when from a trellis, in holiday places, They croon and cajole, with their slumberous faces, A lad in the lane must slacken his paces. Fragrance of these is a voice in a bower: But low by the wall is my odorless flower, So pure, so controlled, not a fume is above her, That poet or bee should delay there and hover; For she is a silence, and therefore I love her. And never a mortal by morn or midnight Is called to her hid little house of delight; And she keeps from the wind, on his pillages olden, Upon a true stalk in rough weather upholden, Her winter-white gourd with the hollow moon-golden. While ardors of roses contend and increase, Methinks she has found how noble is peace, Like a spirit besought from the world to dissever, Not absent to men, tho’ resumed by the Giver, And dead long ago, being lovely for ever. [Illustration] _Tryste Noel_ THE Ox he openeth wide the Doore And from the Snowe he calls her inne, And he hath seen her Smile therefore, Our Ladye without Sinne. Now soone from Sleepe A Starre shall leap, And soone arrive both King and Hinde; _Amen, Amen_: But O, the place co’d I but finde! The Ox hath husht his voyce and bent Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow, And on his lovelie Neck, forspent, The Blessed lays her Browe. Around her feet Full Warme and Sweete His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell; _Amen, Amen_: But sore am I with Vaine Travèl!