| NOTHING is so beautiful as spring— |
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| When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; |
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| Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush |
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| Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring |
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| The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; |
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| The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush |
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| The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush |
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| With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling. |
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| What is all this juice and all this joy? |
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| A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning |
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| In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy, |
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| Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning, |
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| Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, |
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| Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning. |
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