  With what bright symbols have we learned, at last, To write the epic of the tender Springs!— We, who were dumb so many centuries past, Who found no word for frail and lovely things. In tongue-tied wonder at the blossoming earth, We watched the trailing seasons loiter by, Too inarticulate of their transient worth, Beyond the saddened utterance of a sigh. What Aprils taught us, children at the knee, Word by slow word, the language April knows! What Summers broke that brooding reverie, Through patient iterations of the rose!— Ah, dearest tutors of our lisping-time, Today we bring you of our brightest rhyme. |
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