Spring Has Come

Intra Muros     The sunbeams, lost for half a year,     Slant through my pane their morning rays;     For dry northwesters cold and clear,     The east blows in its thin blue haze.     And first the snowdrop's bells are seen,     Then close against the sheltering wall     The tulip's horn of dusky green,     The peony's dark unfolding ball.     The golden-chaliced crocus burns;     The long narcissus-blades appear;     The cone-beaked hyacinth returns     To light her blue-flamed chandelier.     The willow's whistling lashes, wrung     By the wild winds of gusty March,     With sallow leaflets lightly strung,     Are swaying by the tufted larch.     The elms have robed their slender spray     With full-blown flower and embryo leaf;     Wide o'er the clasping arch of day     Soars like a cloud their hoary chief.     See the proud tulip's flaunting cup,     That flames in glory for an hour, -     Behold it withering, - then look up, -     How meek the forest monarch's flower!     When wake the violets, Winter dies;     When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near:     When lilacs blossom, Summer cries,     "Bud, little roses! Spring is here!"     The windows blush with fresh bouquets,     Cut with the May-dew on their lips;     The radish all its bloom displays,     Pink as Aurora's finger-tips.     Nor less the flood of light that showers     On beauty's changed corolla-shades, -     The walks are gay as bridal bowers     With rows of many-petalled maids.     The scarlet shell-fish click and clash     In the blue barrow where they slide;     The horseman, proud of streak and splash,     Creeps homeward from his morning ride.     Here comes the dealer's awkward string,     With neck in rope and tail in knot, -     Rough colts, with careless country-swing,     In lazy walk or slouching trot.     . . . . . . . . . . . . . .     Wild filly from the mountain-side,     Doomed to the close and chafing thills,     Lend me thy long, untiring stride     To seek with thee thy western hills!     I hear the whispering voice of Spring,     The thrush's trill, the robin's cry,     Like some poor bird with prisoned wing     That sits and sings, but longs to fly.     Oh for one spot of living greed, -     One little spot where leaves can grow, -     To love unblamed, to walk unseen,     To dream above, to sleep below!