  Strange that this body in its lifted state Of independent will and power and lust, Should still attest that kinship, dimmed of late, Its ancient, honoured brotherhood with dust;— So that when Spring is quickening in the clay, Stirring dumb particles the way she fares, This foolish flesh is no less moved than they, To sweet, unreasoned happiness, like theirs. Not seed and soil alone, but heart and mind Are somehow swayed, till sober, earnest men, In quick renewal with their dusty kind, Grow foolish-fond, like lads at play again.... So April, stirring blindly through the earth, Can move us to a blind, unthinking mirth. |
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