THE Sun tells to Trafalgar Square
His old and radiant story,
And touches in the young spring air
The pepper-pots to glory.
Spring's robe down Piccadilly floats,
The parks glow with her treasure,
And button-holes of morning coats
Rhyme with her royal pleasure.
Now persons beautifully dressed
In Bond-street shop and saunter,
And town--by Spring's soft breath caressed--
Would as its mistress vaunt her.
But far away from square and street,
Where willows shine and shiver,
The splendour of her silver feet
Is on the wood and river.
She laughs among the tree-roots brown,
Among the dewy clover,
For Spring coquets but with the town;
The country is her lover.