  Spring sleeps and stirs and trembles with desire Pure as a babe's that nestles toward the breast. The world, as yet an all unstricken lyre, With all its chords alive and all at rest, Feels not the sun's hand yet, but feels his breath And yearns for love made perfect. Man and bird, Thrilled through with hope of life that casts out death, Wait with a rapturous patience till his word Speak heaven, and flower by flower and tree by tree Give back the silent strenuous utterance. Earth, Alive awhile and joyful as the sea, Laughs not aloud in joy too deep for mirth, Presageful of perfection of delight, Till all the unborn green buds be born in white. |
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