Walking these long, late twilights of the Spring,
Where all the fret of life seems nothing worth,
And grief, itself, a half-forgotten thing,
Less keen than these cool odours of the earth,—
I sometimes think we find the secret gate
That gives on gardens of enchanted light,
Restoring glories that we lost of late,
To quiet wisdom and more certain sight.
A holier mood will haunt our stubborn will,
Till we shall see revealments through the grass,
And stop, abashed, before a daffodil,
A shining weed, a stone on ways we pass,
Stand with bared head before the evening star,
And know these holy things for what they are.
DISCOVERY
I shall discover ... after all and all ...
From what alembic issues forth the Spring,
What cryptic finger, moving by a wall,
Leaves tulip writs in tulip colouring;
I shall have knowledge of the tug and grip
Of tender roots where they are thrust and curled,
And what frail doors are opened to let slip
The hidden spear into the lighted world.
So I shall know the mint of daffodils,
In darkened rooms where colour comes to birth,
The mouldy chamber where the rose distils
A sweetness that is Summer for the earth ...
And all the strange, alchemic, secret spell,
I shall discover, ... but I shall not tell.