THE POETRY OF SPRING. SPRING. I COME! I come! ye have called me long- I have breathed on the South, and the chestnutflowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky; From the night bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come! |