The springs are loosed, and mad with mirth
Run lisping in the fallen leaves, or laughing in the sunlight free.
Oh you who loved the song so well,
Do you not hear the throstle’s note?
Nor heed the lovesome light that fell
As warm five thousand years ago, when Solomon, the wise king, wrote?
“Sweet,” wrote he. Yes, the light is sweet!
And maddening sweet to walk in Spring:
Yet is the pleasure incomplete—
How should the living understand the melodies that dead throats sing?