Spring
Spring, the tender maiden,
Like a girl who greets her lover,
Comes, her apron laden
Deep with flower and leaf we liked of old:
Not a sprig forgetting
That we then demanded of her;
Changing not nor setting
Out of place the tiniest frill or fold.
See, the aspen still is
Hung awry to droop and falter;
Still the leaves of lilies
Lift aloft their tall and tender sheath.
Wiser than the sages.
Spring would never dare to alter
What so many ages
Showed already right in bloom and wreath.
Ah, could Spring remember
Every thrill and fancy perished
In the soul's December;
Lost for ever, faded from the truth!
Holy things and tender.
Dead, alas! however cherished.
Breathe, O Spring, and render
That forgotten radiance of our youth!
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