O Spring, if I lay on my dying bed I should wait to die, till your glory had fled, I could not go ere the cuckoo had cried His impudent call to the countryside: Not till the swallows had loyally come To their nesting place, in my liefest home, And then I should wait for the blackbird's note To leap from his melody-stirring throat. Ah! And to feel the April rain Pattering on my face again. God grant that I do not die in the Spring, When my whole soul rebels to live and sing; As we all must die, so let me die When the grey November fogs are nigh; Not for a longer space of heaven Would I forfeit one day, nay, one single hour, One sweet bird-cry, or one haunting flower, Of my beautiful, longed-for, fleeting Spring. Hope and Spring! You are sisters! 'Tis Winter still, But you stir in sleep Tho' the cold gusts blow And the bare trees weep. But the early primrose And flitting thrush Have watched you smile And have seen you blush. And tho' it is long Ere yet you rise, And the blue of your glance Reflect in the skies; My heart is awake And ready to sing The moment you beckon, Sweet, glorious Spring! Hope and Spring! You are sisters! PATELEY BRIDGE, NIDDERDALE, QUESTION O Seats of ancient learning, Philosophers and Sages! A child has put a question, which I cannot find in pages Of any tome in any land: and so the answer's missed. "_Where do all the kisses go, after they are kissed?_" THE DALES OF ARCADY FIRST DAY Hearken! The South Wind's voice. My lover returns, and the valleys rejoice. The bees fly upward to watch his flight, The butterflies quiver with glad delight, As he teasingly touches their jewelled wings. O! at his bidding the whitethroat swings In thrillant blue. A thrush's call Blends with a blackbird's madrigal. I steadily gazed at my silent pen, Attempting to keep from my straying ken An Eden of woods, of bosoming hills, Of verdant hedges, of wandering rills. How can one work When a Lover amid the flowers will lurk? He tip-toes in thro' the window-door, And whisks my papers on to the floor; With flower-steeped hands he caresses my hair, And whispers alluringly, "_Fair, most Fair, Slip your slender hand in mine, my Sweeting, Hear! the skylarks cleave the blue with greeting, Hear the blackcap on the thorn at even Trill truths that echo to the highest heaven, Leave your world of carking care, time-haunted, For a country ever spring-enchaunted._"