Spring
Who was it that so lately said,
All pulses in thine heart were dead,
Old Earth, that now in festal robes
Appearest, as a bride new wed?
O wrapt so late in winding-sheet,
Thy winding-sheet, oh! where is fled?
Lo! 'tis an emerald carpet now,
Where the young monarch, Spring, may tread.
He comes, — and, a defeated king,
Old Winter, to the hills is fled.
The warm wind broke his frosty spear,
And loosed the helmet from his head;
And he weak showers of arrowy sleet
From his strongholds has vainly sped.
All that was sleeping is awake,
And all is living that was dead.
Who listens now, can hear the streams
Leap tinkling down their pebbly bed;
Or see them, from their fetters free,
Like silver snakes the meadows thread.
The joy, the life, the hope of earth,
They slept awhile, they were not dead:
Oh thou who say'st thy sere heart ne'er
With verdure can again be spread;
Oh thou who mournest them that sleep,
Low lying in an earthy bed;
Look out on this reviving world,
And be new hopes within thee bred.
~~
Richard Chenevix Trench (1807-1866)
from Poems, 1865
from Poems, 1865
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
"The Seasons" by Trench, read by Sonia for LibriVox. Courtesy Rhodoclassics.
("Spring" begins at 1:27.)
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