Henry Charles Beeching (1859–1919)

THERE breathes a sense of Spring in the boon air:

The woods are amber, purple, misty red,

Primrose and violet rouse them from their bed,

Their skiey homes the patient rooks repair;

Everywhere hope is rife, joy everywhere;

But I, thy heart, lie yet unquickenèd,

And bleating lambs and larks that sing o’erhead

Charm not away my sluggish cold despair.

Peace, peace, fond heart; thy spring-tide is not this;

Thy sap of joy mounted, though flowers were sere,

That day, though leaves fell thick before the West.

Nor grudge nor envy thou a natural bliss.

Birds keep their season, thou through all the year

May’st sing thy song, soar skyward, make thy nest.