 | Songs of Consolation |  |
8
SPRING'S ADVENT.
MARCH fleeth to windward, his waxing less fierce than his wane;
A breath as of balsam there bloweth on land and on sea;
A portent there neareth of blessing and pleasance to be.
The starlings are shrilling, are piping their presage of rain;
The swallows to fieldward are winging and nestward again.
What is it that stirreth, that swelleth in lowland and lea?
What springeth in moorland and meadow, in boscage and tree?
What cometh? Spring cometh, with healing and hope in her train.
A breath as of balsam there bloweth on land and on sea;
A portent there neareth of blessing and pleasance to be.
The starlings are shrilling, are piping their presage of rain;
The swallows to fieldward are winging and nestward again.
What is it that stirreth, that swelleth in lowland and lea?
What springeth in moorland and meadow, in boscage and tree?
What cometh? Spring cometh, with healing and hope in her train.
The throstles are trilling the olden, the golden refrain;
Spring cometh, hope 'neweth, life springeth in woodland and wold:
The grasses are growing, buds blowing in garden and plain;
The meadows are gleaming, are streaming with silver and gold:
No heart but rejoiceth; no soul but to solace is fain;
The Winter is over and young is our world that was old.
Spring cometh, hope 'neweth, life springeth in woodland and wold:
The grasses are growing, buds blowing in garden and plain;
The meadows are gleaming, are streaming with silver and gold:
No heart but rejoiceth; no soul but to solace is fain;
The Winter is over and young is our world that was old.
| Songs of Consolation | |