Constance Caroline Woodhill Naden

May, 1879

AT last, coy Spring, concede one festal day
To us who yearn thy beauty to behold;
These pallid leaves, that peer above the mould,
Perfume and brighten; lanes and woods array
With hawthorn, that was wont to bloom in May,
White-petalled, crimson-anthered; lilies cold,
With drooping bells that hide their central gold,
And sun-bright buttercups and cowslips gay.

Long have we listened to a song of death,
That wild winds chant o'er living seeds entombed:
Sing thou of life; inspire us with thy breath;
Transfuse thy lustre e'en through clouds and showers;
Our hearts shall glow, like dells by thee illumed,
Whose shadows are but images of flowers.