  A FEW notes, half harmonious And half discordant, subtly blent, The master sounds and touches, thus To test and try his instrument. Not music’s self, but its presage; Not tune, but hint of tune it is; Of better things the pledge and gage, And prized for what it promises. Just so the sweet musician, Spring, ’Mid blowing winds and dropping rains, Tightens and sounds each vagrant string, In odd, capricious, sudden strains. It is not music she essays, But just a hint of what shall be When earth and sky and nights and days Join in the summer harmony. And do we dream, or is it true, The grass so brown but yester-morn Has caught a subtly greener hue In sheltered corners of the lawn? Can there be buds upon the hedge— Wee, starry pointlets half unrolled? And were we blind to read the pledge Written in the willow’s pencilled gold? And is it fancy that there breathes A vagrant perfume in the air, A scent of freshly opened leaves? There are no leaves yet anywhere. Ah, dear Spring, stay thy flying feet; Try all thy chords; play leisurely; Though if thy preludes are so sweet What will the finished music be? |
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