THE buds awake at touch of Spring From Winter's joyless dream; From many a stone the ouzels sing By yonder mossy stream. The cuckoo's voice, from copse and vale, Lingers, as if to meet The music of the nightingale Across the rising wheat -- The bird whom ancient Solitude Hath kept forever young, Unaltered since in studious mood Calm Milton mused and sung. Ah, strange it is, dear heart, to know Spring's gladsome mystery Was sweet to lovers long ago -- Most sweet to such as we -- That fresh new leaves and meadow flowers Bloomed when the south wind came; While hands of Spring caressed the bowers, The throstle sang the same. . . . . . . . . . . Unchanged, unchanged the throstle's song, Unchanged Spring's answering breath, Unchanged, though cruel Time was strong, And stilled our love in death. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW'S MY BOY? by SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL THE BROOK; AN IDYL by ALFRED TENNYSON SILEX SCINTIALLANS: THEY ARE ALL GONE by HENRY VAUGHAN FULLNESS OF THE BIBLE by H. J. BETTS SONNET: MAN VERSUS ASCETIC. 3 by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE CHRISTENING by AMY SHERMAN BRIDGMAN THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: INDIAN LOVE SONG by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |