  UP, up, my heart! up, up, my heart, This day was made for thee! For soon the hawthorn spray shall part, And thou a face shalt see That comes, O heart, O foolish heart, This way to gladden thee. The grass shows fresher on the way That soon her feet shall tread— The last year’s leaflet curled and gray, I could have sworn was dead, Looks green, for lying in the way I know her feet will tread. What hand yon blossom-curtain stirs, More light than errant air? I know the touch—’tis hers, ’tis hers! She parts the thicket there— The flowerÈd branch her coming stirs Hath perfumed all the air. The springs of all forgotten years Are waked to life anew— Up, up, my eyes, nor fill with tears As tender as the dew— I knew her not in all those years; But life begins anew. Up, up, my heart! up, up, my heart, This day was made for thee! Come, Wit, take on thy nimblest art, And win Love’s victory— What now? Where art thou, coward heart? Thy hour is here—and She! |
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