Spring in the West

Soon amid the inviolable places

Will green, rustling steeples chime again

With the sweet, glassy bell-notes of the wren.

Soon the plain shall lie beneath blue spaces —

Bold and broad and ruddy in the sun,

Long and lean to the moon when day is done.

Soon will come the strange, heart-lifting season When through the dark, still dawns, where nothing was, Steals the mysterious whisper of growing grass;

And a joy like pain possesses the soul, without reason, Between the budding of day and the lapse of night, With the clear, cold scent of wet starlight.