A heart that finds the best in every man; Impatient he should be at all delay Or if not giv'n at once his own sweet way-- (But then a fault or two is Nature's plan), Yet I would wish his chiefest fault should be A wilfulness to see no fault in me! SEMER WATER. TO THE COMING SPRING Hope and Spring! You are sisters! In my woodlands The primroses are peeping With pale, sweet golden eyes, In spite of Winter's weeping. In my woodlands A thrush has just swung, dipping, In search of his spring voice; The trees stand dripping, dripping. In my woodlands Harsh Winter coldly shivers; The windflower, white adventurer, With hope of springtime quivers. Soon my woodlands, Bearing bannerets of Spring, Will be every moment musical With birds that, mating, sing. Hope and Spring! You are sisters! Oh, Spring! Spring! Since the Autumn died in glory, How I have yearned for your coming Thro' the cloistral fog-bound days, Your beauty seemed a story That would never be told again. Spring! of the pearly cloud-skies Soft-curled as a baby's hand, Turquoise as children's eyes, Of rainbow-tinctured days And twittering song of the eaves! Spring! You desired vision, The wind in your primrose hair, Your eyes, too, weepingly ready, Your face, an anemone fair; Your train, a burgeoning pattern Be-sprent with woodland flowers, Blackthorn, daffies, bluebells, Marking the flight of our hours. Spring! Tho' it still is Winter, In your mystic sleep you smile, Yet the primroses and the thrush on wing Know that even in sleep you sing; You wondrous, envassaling, longed-for Maid! Oh! If Death came now I should be afraid: I have longed for you so the dark months thro', That I must see the pulsing glory of you; And your little hand-maidens in their turn-- For each at their 'pointed times I yearn. Virginal snowdrop, Firstling of Spring! Crocus, herald of purple and gold, Wistful windflowers, Celandined stars, Every one to my heart I fold. Snow-soft blackthorn, You wild, fair sweet, The scent of you brings A flutter of wings; And, almond blossom, You stole at dawn The pale dream vest Of the infant morn. Of a pool of blue I dream-- Hyacinths, waving in ripples of blue. There is nothing so fair the whole world thro' As when quivering sun and quivering wind Jocundly, joyously, leapingly find A young green wood in a lazuli dream.