A Spring Harvest - Geoffrey Bache Smith

Now spring is come upon the hills in France,

And all the trees are delicately fair,

As heeding not the great guns’ voice, by chance

Brought down the valley on a wandering air:

Now day by day upon the uplands bare

Do gentle, toiling horses draw the plough,

And birds sing often in the orchards where

Spring wantons it with blossoms on her brow—

Aye! but there is no peace in England now.