  IN the tassel-time of spring Love’s the only song to sing; Ere the ranks of solid shade Hide the bluebird’s flitting wing, While in open forest glade No mysterious sound or thing Haunt of green has found or made, Though in May each bush be dressed Like a bride, and every nest Learn Love’s joyous repetend, Yet the half-told tale is best At the budding,—with its end Much too secret to be guessed, And its fancies that attend April’s passion unexpressed. Love and Nature communing Gave us Arcady. Still ring— Vales across and groves among— Wistful memories, echoing Pans far-off and fluty song Poet! nothing harsher sing; Be, like Love and Nature, young In the tassel-time of spring. Robert Underwood Johnson. |
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