"Sweet spring is here," I heard men say and sing; Then went I forth to seek where he might be: I found the buds on every bush and tree. But nowhere could I find my darling, Spring. Birds sang, the bees they hummed, but everything They sang or hummed was sad as sad could be. Rills gushed, but all their waves were tears to me; Suns laughed, -- no joy to me their looks could bring, Nor of my darling could I find a trace, Till with my pilgrim staff I took my way To a well-known but long-neglected place, And there I found him, Spring: near where she lay, He sate, a beauteous boy, with tearful face, Like one who weeps above a mother's clay. |