To all my longing spoke a silent nay,

And told me Spring was far away.

Even the robins were too cold to sing,

Except a broken and discouraged note,—

Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat

Music has put her triple finger-print,

Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,—

“Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!”

II

 But now, Carina, what divine amends For all delay! What sweetness treasured up, What wine of joy that blends A hundred flavours in a single cup, Is poured into this perfect day! For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers That lingered on their way, Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May, Entangled with the bloom of later hours,— Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue And white, and iris richly gleaming through The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze Of butter-cups and daisies in the field, Filling the air with praise, As if a chime of golden bells had pealed! The frozen songs within the breast Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods, Melt into rippling floods Of gladness unrepressed. Now oriole and bluebird, thrush and lark, Warbler and wren and vireo, Mingle their melody; the living spark Of Love has touched the fuel of desire, And every heart leaps up in singing fire. It seems as if the land Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress, Trembling with tenderness, While all the woods expand, In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green, To veil a joy too sacred to be seen.

But now, Carina, what divine amends

For all delay! What sweetness treasured up,

What wine of joy that blends

A hundred flavours in a single cup,

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