It is the time of green springing moss, The first primeval heaving of the earth, From winter's death and irreversible loss A season comes of new and fruitful birth.
It is not the spring beloved of youthful times Or the gentle blossoming of warmer isles But a panoply of Nature as she climbs From her sodden monsoon bed and brightly smiles
In sunburst and the brilliant songs of trees Richly adorned, ablaze in waves of heat, Flying their coloured scarves upon the breeze And all the worshipping earth at Her feet.
I hear the sound of silent augur wings And feel immortal joy in mortal things.
Poems Undated (1727)
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