But neath the ruin of the withered brake Primroses now awake From nursing shades: The crumpled carpet of the dry leaves brown Avails not to keep down The hyacinth blades. The hazel hath put forth his tassels ruffed; The willow’s flossy tuft Hath slipped him free: The rose amid her ransacked orange hips Braggeth the tender tips Of bowers to be. A black rook stirs the branches here and there, Foraging to repair His broken home: And hark, on the ash-boughs! Never thrush did sing Louder in praise of spring, When spring is come. 6 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 up-tower In bulging heads that crowd for miles the dazzling south. 7 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. 8 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. 9 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. 10 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.