AS in cool-tempered airs of April-time The cuckoo's call sends through each sense a thrill Of swift anticipation of the prime That ere it ceases summer must fulfil, But when like snow dissolving on the ground The windflowers waste in warmth of later sweets, Men grieve to think how soon, grown hoarse its sound, Shall be the burden of the brazen heats. So though when first falls on the poet's ear Returning Fancy's long-desirèd voice, His wild blood leaps, its summons high to hear, Ere long he sighs—in midst e'en to rejoice— Knowing through many a feverish day and night The fervours that must quench its first delight. |