THE SONG OF SONGS

            The dawn-wind sighs through the trees, and a blackbird, waking,
            Sings in a dream to me of dreams and the dying Spring,
            Calls from the darkened heart of the wood over light leaves shaking,
            Calls from deep hollows of Night where the grey dews cling.

            Soul of the dawn! Dear Voice—O fount pellucid and golden!
            Triumph and Hope and Despair meet in your magical flow,
            Better than all things seen, and best of the unbeholden,
            Song of the strange things known that we shall not know.

            Yours not the silent months, the splendid burden of Summer,
            Dark with the pomp of leaves, and heavy with flowers full blown.
            Spring and the Dawn are your kingdoms, O Spring’s first comer;
            Lordship and largesse of youth, they are all your own.

            Song of songs, and Joy of joys, and Sorrow of sorrows,
            Now in a distant forest of dream, and now in mine ear,
            Who would take thought of eld or the shadow of songless morrows?
            Who would say, ‘Youth is past,’ while you keep faith with the year?

                                                                            ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON.