Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE VOICE OF SPRING, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE VOICE OF SPRING, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: When birds salute the loitering dawn
Last Line: Shall blossom once again, if never else on earth.
Subject(s): Spring


WHEN birds salute the loitering dawn,
And faint, warm sunbeams wake the bee,
From the dim fields of Memory
The veil is year by year withdrawn.
The dear, dead Springs revive once more,
And I grow young again;
Sweet is the world again, as 'twas of yore,
And thought of parted joys is precious pain.
Woo the pale flowers, blithe bee; sing, rippling voice;
Rejoice, be glad, and I too will rejoice.

When the white pear-bloom lights the wall,
And gilly-flowers embalm the air;
When shining chestnut-cases fall,
And lilacs cluster fair;
When 'mid the bursting coverts show
The blue-eyed violets and the windflowers' snow,
Or starry celandines with shining gold,
The old, dead Springs, forgot by all but me,
Their vanished blooms unfold.
Can I forget the buried years?
Not then, not then, shall I forget
Life's fresh dawns dewy-wet.
Sing, thrush; flute, starling; hover, wanton bee,
And wake a rapture dimmed by happy tears.

What gives the youngling Spring a tongue to call?
Till with swift step the ghostly Past draws nigh,
Our Midsummers are dumb;
No voice is theirs, nor spell which can enthrall;
Their painted garden-glories, high and sweet,
Blow silently and fleet unheeded by;
No message brings the white rose or the red
From Junes remote and dead.
Nay, even the cloistered lilies virginal
A wake no stirrings of unrest divine.
The autumnal glories fine,
From ripeness to decay,
Are mute, and pass away;
The reddening orchards and the yellowing wheat
Steal by with noiseless feet,
The glowing pageant marching voicelessly
On its appointed way till Winter come.
These flower within the present, or bear fruit;
But all their Past is mute,
And the dead days of Winter speak no word
Of years long done, nor touch an answering chord.

But not a snowdrop lights the wintry gloom,
And not a crocus flames from out the grass,
And not a primrose smiles on bank or lea,
And not a cherry hides its sprays in bloom;
But suddenly for me
The gray mists lift, the gathered shadows pass,
The undying Past once more begins to be;
The daisy and the lamb upon the field
Are wonders new-revealed;
Youth's long-strange thoughts return, the world grows gay,
And with the increasing day
The tide of Time ebbs refluent, and I seem
To hear again the hurrying, high-voiced stream
Laugh by Life's founts; for whom long since the deep,
Slow-footed, rolls asleep
Thro' hushed autumnal marshes to the sea.

Then wake, oh world, again;
Dear vanished Springs, revive for young and old,
Shine, morning years with scarce-abated gold;
Return, oh sweet half-pain,
That comest of remembrance of years done.
A little while we are beneath the sun;
Let us not all forget
The treasure of long hope redoubled by regret:
The springtides of the soul, which in that strange new birth
Shall blossom once again, if never else on earth.





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