SWEET bird, what makes thee glad?

Beneath this sky so wan and sad,

And leafless poplars, thin and grey,

Bowed down before the wintry sway.

What tuneful thought of days gone by

Doth make thee sing? Or knowest thou why

Thy soul is lifted up, sweet bird?

Or dost thou hear Spring’s voice, unheard

Of earth that sleeps, nor, dreaming, minds

The herald blast of trumpet winds

That make old Winter’s fortress quail,

And force him cast his coat of mail.

What secret bower thy shape doth keep?

Close hidden by the buds that sleep;

Thy voice—the firstling bloom that blows—

That bear thy song of promise, meet

For happy hours when lovers greet,

When every leaf-lorn tree shall bear

Flower, fruit, and song upon the air,

And summer’s choir is full, and gay

The soft winds on the sun’s feast-day.

Sweet bird, as thou dost sing, my soul

Doth partly catch the speechless whole

Of joyful pain that lifts the wings

Of thy sequestered music—things

Remembered half, and half forgot,

Of sight, or sound, or sense begot,

Confused in love’s ambrosial streams,

And hidden in the house of dreams;

As frail sweet scent of flowers that hold

Past time and days in some book’s fold,

Which, when the leaves are turned again,

Doth warm, like wine, the wintry brain.

O bird, thy heart doth sing in me,

I hear what thou dost hear—I see

Upon a high green land, untrod

Of men, upon the flower-wrought sod

The feet of Spring, and her bright throng

Break from the woods with shout and song;

Before her go, her path to clear,

Sweet maids come with her, and behind,

Light-footed as the lifting wind:

Some bear her canopy on high,

And warm gleams gild it from the sky;

Some strew with flowers the flower-strewn ground,

Some bind them garlands, some are bound,

And still, with all the happy rout,

Fleet little loves wind in and out;

Some hide in maiden’s fluttering weed,

And ply their pretty arts, nor heed,

While wilful gusts make sport, like them,

With mantle’s fold, and garment’s hem;

Or some, more bold, soft vengeance wreak

On lifting hair, and glowing cheek.

But, scarce the wood hath set them free,

Some forceful sprite in winter’s fee

To snatch Spring’s garland would make bold,

Whom shrill the shrinking maids do scold,

Until the sun, their champion bright,

Doth drive aback the wintry knight,

Whose wild assault being overthrown,

Far in the woodland makes he moan,

And gentle Spring with all her train

Doth hold high court on earth again.