With the flying scud, with the birds on the wing,
We wandered out at the close of day;
Our faint hearts swelled with the life of the spring,
As the young buds burgeon on branch and spray.
As we heard the sheltering coppice ring
With a burst of joy too full for words,
Our hearts sung too, but of what strange thing,
We knew no more than the singing birds.
We stood 'mid the gorse on the golden hill
While the sun went down in a sea of mist;
Though its glory was lingering around us still,
We were sad at heart, for the end we wist.
A homeless breath that was wandering chill
Had found a voice in the evening breeze,
And the silent birds that had sung their fill
Were asleep in the shade of the feathery trees.
‘Soul of the younger springs gone by,
Why haunt us with that breath forlorn,
Avenging with a ghostly sigh,
Too sad for words, the words we scorn?’—
We said, when lo, the coppice nigh
Gave forth a voice, and we had done,—
It seemed to touch the stars on high,—
It almost might recall the sun.
Dear bird of love, fond nightingale,
That firest all the grove with song,
Till we who catch the fervid tale,
Forget the years that do us wrong;
Glad birds that no lost springs bewail,
Sweethearts that are not sad and wise,
Wake the spring night, young nightingale,
And we will see it with thine eyes!