| |
| THERE is a rapturous movement, a green growing | |
| Among the hills and valleys once again, | |
| And silent rivers of delight are flowing | |
| Into the hearts of men. | |
| |
| There is a purple weaving on the heather, | 5 |
| Night drops down starry gold upon the furze, | |
| Wild rivers and wild birds sing songs together, | |
| Dead nature breathes and stirs. | |
| |
| Is this the season when our hearts should follow | |
| The Man of Sorrows to the hills of scorn? | 10 |
| Must not our pilgrim grief be scant and hollow | |
| On such a sunny morn? | |
| |
| Will not the silver trumpet of the river | |
| Wind us to gladsomeness against our will? | |
| The subtle eloquence of sunlight shiver | 15 |
| What sadness haunts us still? | |
| |
| If I might choose these notes should all be duller, | |
| That silver trump should fail in Passion week; | |
| The mountain-crowning sky wear one pale colour, | |
| Pale as my Saviour’s cheek. | 20 |
| |
| And day and night there should be one slow raining, | |
| With mournful plash, upon the moor and moss, | |
| And on the hill one tree, its bare arms straining; | |
| Bare as my Saviour’s cross. | |
| |
| Nay, if my heart were sorrowful exceeding, | 25 |
| Its pulses big with that divinest woe, | |
| These natural things would only set it bleeding | |
| To think it should be so— | |
| |
| To think that guilty and degraded Nature | |
| Could look as joyful as she looketh now, | 30 |
| When the warm blood has dropp’d from her Creator | |
| Upon her branded brow. | |
| |
