Dost thou not rejoice,

When the spring sends forth an awakening voice

Through the young woods? Thou dost! And in that birth

Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth,

Thousands, like thee, find gladness! Couldst thou know

How every breeze then summons me to go!

How all the light of love and beauty shed

By those rich hours, but woos me to the dead!

The only beautiful that change no more—

The only loved!—the dwellers on the shore