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