The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd :: :: University of Virginia Library

Young April waved a milk-white hand
And made new magic in the land.
Now over all the rolling plain
Her purple wind-bells bloom again;
The blossom falls, the Judas-trees
Unthread their coral rosaries;
The tufted fennels thrust on high
A golden broom to sweep the sky;
And over broken archways flows
The saffron of the budding rose.

Now all the green grass country sings,
Now stirs the sap, and where it springs
A memory-haunted fragrance fills
The ilex hollows in the hills.
Now misty seas of borage bloom
En-isle the ruined roadside tomb,
And now as when the world began
The lamb's first cry goes out to Pan.

Now where the winding stream divides
The poplars on its willowed sides,
The whitethroat tells his happy tale
And mocks the lingering nightingale.
Now in the shadows of the glen
Uncurls the timid cyclamen,
And he may find who cares and knows
Wet dips where white narcissus blows;
Now all the warm, caressing air
Breathes violets, violets everywhere.

And here, where still the tender touch
Of slow decay has left so much,
Where centred memories linger round
Each landmark set in storied ground,
When spring makes all things fresh and fair
And felt more keenly, glimpses rare
Of that unfathomed world arise
Which once I saw with childhood's eyes.