Whence are we victors, chanting as we go,
April and I.
“Be free, ye tumbling streams, awake O snow—
Ye silver blooms increase and multiply?”
What is our spell?—The singing heart we bring,
And lo! that song that is the core of earth
Leaps in reply, and children of the Spring
Into the light come forth.
THE DAWN OF YOUNG SPRING
Then there was a dawn over the Campagna, seen from the train that was speeding us towards Rome. A ball of red fire hung over the horizon. The sea lay silver and grey; and misty silver the Campagna.... “God made himself an awful rose of dawn,” as Tennyson sings. He did that morning: awful, yet full of a glorious comfort. The sea just caught the great reflection on its bosom.