 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
70
The Chiff-Chaff
When April stars the bank with celandine
And decks each orchard-garth with daffodil,
Hark! sudden on the topmost branch, a trill
Of passionate music—ecstacy divine!
Then, though not yet the blackthorn blossoms shine,
Nor yet the cuckoo stammers from the hill,
Nor yet with fragrant trees the larches fill
The bronze-grey copse, I know the spring is mine.
And decks each orchard-garth with daffodil,
Hark! sudden on the topmost branch, a trill
Of passionate music—ecstacy divine!
Then, though not yet the blackthorn blossoms shine,
Nor yet the cuckoo stammers from the hill,
Nor yet with fragrant trees the larches fill
The bronze-grey copse, I know the spring is mine.
Mine, little avant-courier of the throng
Of light-winged hearts on love's adventure bent,
Mine by thy sweet insistence and the fire
Of utterance long time in thy bosom pent,
Mine by thy gift of praise that shall not tire
Till all the vales are glad with leaf and song.
Of light-winged hearts on love's adventure bent,
Mine by thy sweet insistence and the fire
Of utterance long time in thy bosom pent,
Mine by thy gift of praise that shall not tire
Till all the vales are glad with leaf and song.
| A Sonnet Chronicle | |