LXXXVIII

Now spring comes up the world, sweetheart,
What shall we find to do? 
The hills grow purple in the rain, 
The sea is gold and blue;

The door is open to the sun, 

The window to the sky; 
The odour of the cherry bough, 
A freighted dream, goes by;

The spruces tell the southwest wind
Where the white windflowers are; 

The brooks are babbling in the dusk 
To one great yellow star;

In all the April-coloured land,
Where glints and murmurs stray,
There's not a being that draws breath

But will go mad to-day— 

Go mad with piercing ecstasy, 
Afoot, afloat, awing, 
And wild with all the aching sweet 
Delirium of spring.