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George MacDonald - Songs of the Spring DaysGeorge MacDonald - Songs of the Spring Days
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I. A gentle wind, of western birth On some far summer sea, Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, Wakes hopes in wintry me. The sun is low; the paths are wet, And dance with frolic hail; The trees—their spring-time is not yet— Swing sighing in the gale. Young gleams of sunshine peep and play; Clouds shoulder in between; I scarce believe one coming day The earth will all be green. The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves, And flaps his snowy wing: Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves; Thou canst not bar our spring. II. Up comes the primrose, wondering; The snowdrop droopeth by; The holy spirit of the spring Is working silently. Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile The later children out; O`er woods and farms a sunny smile Is flickering about. The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull; To death almost she slept: Over her, heaven grew beautiful, And forth her beauty crept. Showers yet must fall, and waters grow Dark-wan with furrowing blast; But suns will shine, and soft winds blow, Till the year flowers at last. III. The sky is smiling over me, Hath smiled away the frost; White daisies star the sky-like lea, With buds the wood`s embossed. Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky Up through the latticed boughs; Till comes the green cloud by and by, It is not time to house. Yours is the day, sweet bird—sing on; The winter is forgot; Like an ill dream `tis over and gone: Pain that is past, is not. Joy that was past is yet the same: If care the summer brings, `Twill only be another name For love that broods, not sings. IV. Blow on me, wind, from west and south; Sweet summer-spirit, blow! Come like a kiss from dear child`s mouth, Who knows not what I know. The earth`s perfection dawneth soon; Ours lingereth alway; We have a morning, not a noon; Spring, but no summer gay. Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn Crown soon the swift year`s life: In us a higher hope is born, And claims a longer strife. Will heaven be an eternal spring With summer at the door? Or shall we one day tell its king That we desire no more?
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