IN THE SPRING FIELDS.
There dwells a spirit in the budding year—As motherhood doth beautify the face—That even lends these barren glebes a grace,And fills grey hours with beauty that were drearAnd bleak when the loud, storming March was here:A glamour that the thrilled heart dimly tracesIn swelling boughs and soft, wet, windy spaces,And sunlands where the chattering birds make cheer.I thread the uplands where the wind’s footfallsStir leaves in gusty hollows, autumn’s urns.Seaward the river’s shining breast expands,High in the windy pines a lone crow calls,And far below some patient ploughman turnsHis great black furrow over steaming lands.
There dwells a spirit in the budding year—As motherhood doth beautify the face—That even lends these barren glebes a grace,And fills grey hours with beauty that were drearAnd bleak when the loud, storming March was here:A glamour that the thrilled heart dimly tracesIn swelling boughs and soft, wet, windy spaces,And sunlands where the chattering birds make cheer.I thread the uplands where the wind’s footfallsStir leaves in gusty hollows, autumn’s urns.Seaward the river’s shining breast expands,High in the windy pines a lone crow calls,And far below some patient ploughman turnsHis great black furrow over steaming lands.
There dwells a spirit in the budding year—As motherhood doth beautify the face—That even lends these barren glebes a grace,And fills grey hours with beauty that were drearAnd bleak when the loud, storming March was here:A glamour that the thrilled heart dimly tracesIn swelling boughs and soft, wet, windy spaces,And sunlands where the chattering birds make cheer.
I thread the uplands where the wind’s footfallsStir leaves in gusty hollows, autumn’s urns.Seaward the river’s shining breast expands,High in the windy pines a lone crow calls,And far below some patient ploughman turnsHis great black furrow over steaming lands.