Not only the peeping grass and the scent—
(Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!)
Of violets coming ere April's spent—
But the frog's shrill cheer
And the crow's wild jeer!
Not only the blue, not only the breeze,
(Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!)
But sun that is sweeter upon the trees
Than rills that throng
To the brooklet's song!
Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love,
(Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!)
For spring is below and God is above—
But all is a waste
Without thee—Haste!
III.
MATING
The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing!
What shall we do with the April days!
Kingcups soon will be up and swinging—
What shall we do with May's!
The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!"
Out on the bough he flutters, a flame.
Thrush-flutes echo "For mating's elating!
Love is its other name!"
They know! know it! but better, oh, better,
Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring,
Know we to make each moment a debtor
Unto love's burgeoning!