12
Riding adown the country lanes
One day in spring,
Heavy at heart with all the pains
Of man’s imagining:—
The mist was not yet melted quite
Into the sky:
The small round sun was dazzling white,
The merry larks sang high:
The grassy northern slopes were laid
In sparkling dew,
Out of the slow-retreating shade
Turning from sleep anew:
Deep in the sunny vale a burn
Ran with the lane,
O’erhung with ivy, moss and fern
It laughed in joyful strain:
And primroses shot long and lush
Their cluster’d cream:
Robin and wren and amorous thrush
Carol’d above the stream:
The stillness of the lenten air
Call’d into sound
The motions of all life that were
In field and farm around:
So fair it was, so sweet and bright,
The jocund Spring
Awoke in me the old delight
Of man’s imagining,
Riding adown the country lanes:
The larks sang high.—
O heart! for all thy griefs and pains
Thou shalt be loth to die.