| NOTHING is so beautiful as spring— | |
| When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; | |
| Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush | |
| Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring | |
| The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; | |
| The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush | |
| The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush | |
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
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| What is all this juice and all this joy? | |
| A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning | |
| In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy, | |
| Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning, | |
| Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, | |
| Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning. |
