That song is hardly even as wise as I— Nay, very foolishness it is. To die In March before its life were well on wing, Before its time and kindly season—why Should spring be sad—before the swallows fly— Enough to dream of such a wintry thing? Such foolish words were more unmeet for spring Than snow for summer when his heart is high; And why should words be foolish when they sing? The song-birds are not. ESTRILD. Dost thou understand, Child, what the birds are singing? SABRINA. All the land Knows that: the water tells it to the rushes Aloud, and lower and softlier to the sand: The flower-fays, lip to lip and hand in hand, Laugh and repeat it all till darkness hushes Their singing with a word that falls and crushes All song to silence down the river-strand And where the hawthorns hearken for the thrushes. And all the secret sense is sweet and wise That sings through all their singing, and replies When we would know if heaven be gay or grey And would not open all too soon our eyes To look perchance on no such happy skies— As sleep brings close and waking blows away. ESTRILD. What gives thy fancy faith enough to say This? SABRINA. Why, meseems the sun would hardly rise Else, nor the world be half so glad of day. ESTRILD. Why didst thou crave of me that song, Sabrina? SABRINA. Because, methought, though one were king or queen And had the world to play with, if one missed What most were good to have, such joy, I ween, Were woful as a song with sobs between And well might wail for ever, ‘Had I wist!’ And might my father do but as he list, And make this day what other days have been, I should not shut tonight mine eyes unkissed. ESTRILD. I wis thou wouldst not. SABRINA. Then I would he were No king at all, and save his golden hair Wore on his gracious head no golden crown. Must he be king for ever? ESTRILD. Not if prayer Could lift from off his heart that crown of care And draw him toward us as with music down. SABRINA. Not so, but upward to us. He would but frown To hear thee talk as though the woodlands there Were built no lordlier than the wide-walled town. Thou knowest, when I desire of him to see What manner of crown that wreath of towers may be That makes its proud head shine like older Troy’s, His brows are bent even while he laughs on me And bids me think no more thereon than he, For flowers are serious things, but towers are toys. ESTRILD.