Sir John Bowring (1792–1872)

SPRING is but another birth,

From the grave of earlier springs,

Which to renovated earth

Other resurrection brings.

God hath moulded all that God’s

Power could mould, from mortal dust;

Flowers and fruits, from clouds and clods,

Life from ruin and from rust.

’Twas a wondrous hand that laid

In the seed the unborn tree;

Bud and blossom in the blade,

Future ripened fruit to be.

Still more wondrous was the might

That, from night’s obscurest shrine,

Brought forth intellectual light,

Souls with thoughts and hopes divine.

Yes! ’twas a transcendent power

Which, for earth’s contracted whole,

Gave to heaven a worthy dower,

Gave an ever-living soul.

Less than earth to heaven, and less

Than to ages moments seem,

Is the world we now possess,

To the world of which we dream.

Earthly love is faint and small,

When compared with the embrace

Of a love encircling all,

Through all time and o’er all space.