Come, O Springtide of my Love: the World, again, make New! Light in Heaven and Flowers on Earth, o'er Hill and Plain, make New! With the blue gleaming Sun-gem, set thy new green Turban on; And o'er the Fields all verdant, thy floral Train, make New! Paint Meadows fresh with bright Buds, let Hedgerows sprout once more; Rose Breast-Knots, slender Lilies in bathing Rain, make New! Melt with thy warm Breath Winter's iced Coat and frozen Spear; With tender Smile shame Hatred; Peace, ending Pain, make New! The Air pines for thy Whisper, and the Rose's Breath is faint; Then from Slumber rouse thy Zephyrs, and the feather'd Vane, make New! Roll, Thunder, pour thy Bounty adown from bursting Cloud; Now bathe from Head to Foot free, and Death's Disdain, make New! Strike, Pine, upon the Wind-drum! O Plane-tree, clap thy Hands! Brooding Love, the dreamy birth Down on feather'd Train, make New! Vines, twine around the Elm Trees, God's Glory showing fair; While Violets kiss the soft Sod, Spring's sweet Hymn-strain, make New! Hyacinths the Tulips fondle; woos Rose the Nightingale. While Turtles coo in low Notes, my Song's Refrain, make New! Kindle Altar-fire in Blossoms, in Fragrance Incense burn; The Pan Pipes that in dead Grass, long have silent lain, make New! Let Leaves shoot quivering Tongues out, Love's Questionings in Play; And whisp'ring to each other, Love's Wrangling vain, make New. Hark! How the Morning Breezes, at rosy Dawn all call: Up! Up! O Friend, 'tis Spring-time: the Soul's glad Reign, make New! Behold the Spring in Glory! O thou Alchemist of Flowers, Smelt the fiery Glow to Blossoms; our World, again, make New! Revolving in Mystic Dance XV. Come! Come! Thou art the Soul, the Soul so dear, Revolving! Come! Come! Thou art the Cedar, the Cedar's Spear, Revolving! O Come! The Well of Light up-bubbling springs; And Morning Stars exult, in Gladness sheer, Revolving! Of the o'er-arching Heavens, the Highest is the Seventh; But over all thou stretchest, bright, and clear, Revolving! In warmest Arms of Love thou hold'st me clasped, And thee I hold enclasped, soft breathing, near, Revolving! In Sunbeams dance the Motes, by Sunlight grasped, O Sunlight, grasping me, dispel my Fear, Revolving! The Motes dance mute, yet telling all of Love; O silent Love! Teach me thy own Dance here, Revolving! The Soul in All XVI.