The Sibyl
Behold, the old earth is young again!
The blackthorn whitens in the rain,
The flowers come baffling wind and hail.
The gay, wild nightingale
Cries out his heart in wood and vale.
(And in my heart there rises too
A dim free longing
For some delight I never knew!)
O Spring, thou art a subtle thing.
Wiser than we, thou Sibyl, Spring!
Thy tresses blown across our face
In Life's mid-race
Remind us of some holier place—
(And unawares the dullest find
A new religion
That all their doubts have left behind!)
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