His nostrils drank the scent of earth 

 When rain is over and done. 

 A lily came from the winter's womb 

 And grew in its own sweet pride, 

 But the ruthless steel passed over its bloom, 

 And low in the dust it died. 

 And the poet's heart was filled with pain 

 That a delicate thing and rare 

 Should be reft of the beauty of which it was fain 

 And killed by the cruel share. 

 So he sang of the meadows white with lambs, 

 And life all young again, 

 Of the colts which gallop to their dams, 

 Knowing not any rein. 

 He sang of the spring upon the sea, 

 Hedges all white with may, 

 The year in its sweet infancy, 

 This our great world at play. 

 Of shepherds piping to their flocks 

 Across the fields of thyme, 

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