Classic Poem

The earth is bright with splendour,
The winter winds are fled,
The winter snow is racing
Swift down the river bed;
The willow-buds are breaking,
The blue-bird whistles clear,
New green is on the hillside,
And Beauty trembles near.
O Spring, why all your glory,
In shining pageant spread
When I hear the wounded moaning
And the fields are dyed with red. . . .

The crocus-flowers are springing
And golden in the sun;
The trees are hung with blossom,
And swift the streamlets run;
The love-note of the cuckoo
Floats on the quiet air;
The sky is like an opal,
So luminous and fair.
O Spring, why all this glory,
In shining pageant spread
When I hear the wounded moaning
And the fields are dyed with red. . . .