WHERE are you, Sylvia, where? For our own bird, the woodpecker, is here, Calling on you with cheerful tappings loud! The breathing heavens are full of liquid light; The dew is on the meadow like a cloud; The earth is moving in her green delight -- Her spiritual crocuses shoot through, And rathe hepaticas in rose and blue; But snowdrops that awaited you so long Died at the thrush's song. "Adieu, adieu!" they said. "We saw the skirts of glory, and we fade; We were the hopeless lovers of the Spring, Too young, as yet, for any love of ours; She is harsh, not having heard the white-throat sing She is cold, not knowing the tender April showers; Yet have we felt her, as the buried grain May feel the rustle of the unfallen rain; We have known her, as the star that sets too soon Bows to the unseen moon." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WEDDING BED IN MANGKUTANA by KAREN SWENSON MARCH by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 3. HER WORDS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH ANTONY AND [OR, TO] CLEOPATRA by WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 104 by ALFRED TENNYSON HASSAN'S MUSIC by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A PALIMPSEST by KATHERINE HARRIS BRADLEY THE LITTLE PLANT by KATE LOUISE BROWN THE WANDERER: PROLOGUE. PART 3 by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |