Spring

Ebenezer Elliott (1781–1849)

AGAIN the violet of our early days

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,

And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;

The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done,

Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run.

Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom!

Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!

Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb!

And thou shade-loving hyacinth, be born!

Then, haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn,

Whose dewdrops shall illume with pearly light

Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands

From sea to sea, while daisies infinite

Uplift in praise their glowing hands,

O’er every hill that under heaven expands.