To George H. Boughton, R. A.
Spring stirs and wakes by holt and hill;
In barren copse and bloomless close
Revives the memory of the rose,
And breaks the yellow daffodil.
Look how the spears of crocus fill
The ancient hollows of the snows,—
Spring stirs and wakes!
Yet what to you are months? At will
For you the season comes or goes;
We watch the flower that fades and blows,
But on your happy canvas still
Spring stirs and wakes!
In barren copse and bloomless close
Revives the memory of the rose,
And breaks the yellow daffodil.
Look how the spears of crocus fill
The ancient hollows of the snows,—
Spring stirs and wakes!
Yet what to you are months? At will
For you the season comes or goes;
We watch the flower that fades and blows,
But on your happy canvas still
Spring stirs and wakes!
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