Love in Spring-Time

I cannot tell what you say green leaves,
    I cannot tell what you say :
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
    And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,
    I cannot tell what you say :
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
    And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,
    I cannot tell what you say :
But I know that in you too a spirit doth live,
    And a word doth speak this day.

"Oh green is the colour of faith and truth,
And rose the colour of love and youth,
    And brown of the fruitful clay.
Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young,
And her bridal day shall come ere long,
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams
    And the whispering woodlands say."

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?
    Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells?
"Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden,
"All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones,
    Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells."

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?
    Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours?
"Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden,
"All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis,
    Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers."

Young Love lies sleeping
 In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
 Lapped in tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
 White doves come building there;
And round about him
 The May-bushes are white.

 ... 

Young Love lies dreaming;
 But who can tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
 On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
 Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
 Or songs of cherished lips.

 ... 

Draw close the curtains
 Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
 With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
 Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
 Return to nestle here.

Young Love lies sleeping,
And round about him
The May bushes are white.

Underneath the growing grass,
  Underneath the living flowers,
  Deeper than the sound of showers:
  There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.

Youth and health will be but vain,
  Beauty reckoned of no worth:
  There a very little girth
  Can hold round what once the earth
Seemed too narrow to contain.

Oh what comes over the sea,
  Shoals and quicksands past;
And what comes home to me,
  Sailing slow, sailing fast?

A wind comes over the sea
  With a moan in its blast;
But nothing comes home to me,
  Sailing slow, sailing fast.

Let me be, let me be,
  For my lot is cast:
Land or sea all's one to me,
  And sail it slow or fast.

A floating, a floating
Across the sleeping sea,
All night I heard a singing bird
Upon the topmost tree.

'Oh came you off the isles of Greece,
Or off the banks of Seine;
Or off some tree in forests free,
Which fringe the western main?'

'I came not off the old world
Nor yet from off the new—
But I am one of the birds of God
Which sing the whole night through.'

'Oh sing, and wake the dawning—
Oh whistle for the wind;
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat it lags behind.'

'The current sweeps the old world,
The current sweeps the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow
Ere thou hast sailed them through.'

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