The fieldfares turn, and soaring high, wheel broods
Of wild swans with a clamour of swift wings:
A tremor of new life moves through all things
And earth regenerate thrills with joyous moods.
Let not spring’s breath blow vainly past thine heart,
Dear friend: for Time grows ruinously apace:
Yon tall white lily in its holy grace
The winds will draggle soon: for an unseen dart
Moves ever hither and thither through each place,
Nor know we when or how our lives ’twill part.
II
A little thing it is indeed to die:
God’s seal to sanctify the soul’s advance—
Or silence, and a long enfevered trance.
But no slight thing is it—ere the last sigh
Leaves the tired heart, ere calm and passively
The worn face reverent grows, fades the dim glance—
To pass away and pay no recompense