SPRING MAGIC

This morning soft and brooding
In the warm April rain,
The doors of sense are opened
To set me free again.

I pass into the colour

And fragrance of the flowers,
And melt with every bird-cry
To haunt the mist-blue showers.

I thrill in crimson quince-buds
To raptures without name;

And in the yellow tulips
Burn with a pure still flame.

I blend with the soft shadows
Of the young maple leaves,
And mingle in the rain-drops

I fade in silver music,
Whose fine unnumbered notes
The frogs and rainy fifers
Blow from their reedy throats.

No glory is too splendid

To house this soul of mine,
No tenement too lowly
To serve it for a shrine.

How is it we inherit
This marvel of new birth,

Sharing the ancient wonder
And miracle of earth?

What wisdom, what enchantment,
What magic of Green Fire,
Could make the dust and water

Obedient to desire?

Keep thou, by some large instinct,
Unwasted, fair, and whole,
The innocence of nature,
The ardour of the soul;