Walter de la Mare’s “Spring” recalls a time when the speaker was young and walked side by side with spring itself, matching its pace. Back then, spring seemed generous: its crimson may-blossom burned like a flame over their path, and its wild face cast a thrilling, almost dangerous light on him, compared to hounds catching sight of their prey. The memory is bright but edged with intensity. Now, as an old man, the speaker says he knows what spring’s weapons really are — “shafts” and “keenness cold” that pierce him. The poem turns from nostalgia to a quieter pain: beauty and renewal feel sharp when you are old, because they remind you of what has gone. The mood is lyrical and bittersweet, mixing wonder with the chill of loss.
Spring — Summary
Once when my life was young, I, too, with Spring's bright face By mine, walked softly along, Pace to his pace.
Then burned his crimson may, Like a clear flame outspread, Arching our happy way: Then would he shed
Strangely from his wild face Wonderful light on me-- Like hounds that keen in chase Their quarry see.
Oh, sorrow now to know What shafts, what keenness cold His are to pierce me through, Now that I'm old.