Foretold by many a whispering wing,
The old, the new, the sweet surprise.
For once, the wonder was not new—
And yet it wore a newer grace:
For all its innocence of hue,
Its warmth and bloom and dream and dew,
I had but left—in Helen’s face.
Robert Underwood Johnson.
BEFORE THE BLOSSOM
IN the tassel-time of spring