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SPRING too sick

PRING,-art thou come, O Spring!

I am too sick for words;

How hast thou heart to sing,

O Spring, with all thy birds?


I sing for joy to see again

The merry leaves along the lane,
The little bud grown ripe ;

And look, my love upon the bough!

Hark, how she calleth to me now,—

"Pipe ! pipe !"


Ah! weary is the sun :

Love is an idle thing;

But, Bird, thou restless one,
What ails thee, wandering?


By shore and sea I come and go

To seek I know not what; and lo!

On no man's eaves I sit

But voices bid me rise once more,
To flit again by sea and shore,—

Flit! Flit!


This is Earth's bitter cup :—
Only to seek, not know.
But Thou, that strivest up,
Why dost thou carol so?


A secret Spirit gifteth me

With song, and wing that lifteth me,—

A Spirit for whose sake,

Striving amain to reach the sky,

Still to the old dark earth I cry,—

"Wake! wake !"


My hope hath lost its wing.

Thou, that to Night dost call,

How hast thou heart to sing

Thy tears made musical?


Alas for me! a dry desire

Is all my song,—a waste of fire

That will not fade nor fail;

To me, dim shapes of ancient crime Moan through the windy ways of time,

"Wail! wail!"


This is the sick man's song,

Mournful, in sooth, and fit; Unrest that cries "How long !"And the Night answers it.

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Down where the Violet drooped,

Shy, at her side :—

"Sweetheart, save me and you,

Where has the summer kist

Flowers of as fair a hue,-
Turkis or Amethyst ?"

Therewith I laughed aloud,
Spake on this wise,

"O little flowers so proud,

Have ye seen eyes

Change through the blue in them,

Change till the mere

Loving that grew in them

Turned to a tear?

"Flowers, ye are bright of hue,

Delicate, sweet;

Flowers, and the sight of you

Lightens men's feet;

Yea; but her worth to me,

Flowerets, even,

Sweetening the earth to me,

Sweeteneth heaven.

"This, then, O Flowers, I sing;

God, when He made

Made yet a fairer thing


Making my Lady;—

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