  The beautiful old simple songs That make us laugh and cry, That sing of dying loveliness In words that cannot die: Of how the singer’s love was sweet Or how she was unkind, And how her lips were red that now Are dust upon the wind: Of how the fields were gold in May With daffodils a-row, And all the birds made holiday Six hundred years ago: These, when the beauty of the spring Clad in this alien dress Turns like a sharp sword in our hearts For utter loveliness, And joy and sorrow intermixed Run tingling through our veins— These bring more peace and comfort still Than newer, subtler strains. Oh, quarrion for missel-thrush And rosewood bloom for may! The things the nameless singer saw Are what we see to-day. The grass is just as green to-day, The distant hill as blue, The birds are just as glad as then, The lovers just as true; And Alisoun is dead long syne With him that called her fair, But love is just as sweet and fresh When spring is in the air; And though I must perforce be dumb Who have no skill to sing, I am as deep in love, in love, As is the year in spring! Australia. |
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