Sound, Sea of England, sound and shine,
Blow, English Wind, amain,
Till in this old, gray heart of mine
The Spring need wake again!
VI
In the red April dawn,
In the wild April weather,
From brake and thicket and lawn
The birds sing all together.
The look of the hoyden Spring
Is pinched and shrewish and cold;
But all together they sing
Of a world that can never be old:
Of a world still young—still young!—
Whose last word won’t be said,
Nor her last song dreamed and sung,
Till her last true lover’s dead!
VII
The April sky sags low and drear,
The April winds blow cold,
The April rains fall gray and sheer,
And yeanlings keep the fold.
But the rook has built, and the song-birds quire,
And over the faded lea
The lark soars glorying, gyre on gyre,
And he is the bird for me!
For he sings as if from his watchman’s height
He saw, this blighting day,
The far vales break into colour and light
From the banners and arms of May.