New Spring
It would be an unholy thing
Not to be glad when I am glad,
Today when feet have a song to sing,
And every bird in the sky is mad.
Not to be glad would be to lie
Quite dead, or wrapped in burning sleep,
Today when sounds so gaily die
For the sake of a singing echo, and I
Am so glad a thing that I could weep.
Not to be glad when I am glad,
Today when feet have a song to sing,
And every bird in the sky is mad.
Not to be glad would be to lie
Quite dead, or wrapped in burning sleep,
Today when sounds so gaily die
For the sake of a singing echo, and I
Am so glad a thing that I could weep.
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