 | Wild honey from various thyme |  |
190
TO SPRING
A greater stranger even that Death is SpringThou art a greater stranger even than Death!
So alien I taste the April breath,
So mad the hustle of the rook's dark wing!
And what of this acute, blithe colouring?
As by a sharp-cut monument that saith
Nothing to me, that but bewildereth,
The record of some life-forgotten thing,
I stand before the verdure of thy fields.
Nor is this life the wattle-sheepfold yields:
No eddying leaves did ever course a spell
So aimless as this flickering hazel-dell:
The roosted little cries and jerks, if blithe,
Flash single, as the whetting of Time's scythe.
| Wild honey from various thyme | |