Clear as the waters that once had dropped,
The air flitting lightly high on the hills,
Stirred and summoned the birds to flight,
To flight and song that comes midst spring’s first breath.
Pine-tops swayed in the warming air,
Each crown shuddering at winter,
Which still clung to the upper reaches, where,
The Sun did not yet tread and frost cooled the sap.
Winding upward, paths of loam and clay,
Like earth blood spilled from water-cut wounds,
Found dryness on the breath of spring,
Pools of water, like unto tears, remained only.
Wide out o’er the counties of England,
The roving eye from towers top,
Did mark the passage of the sun in cloudless sky,
Kissing the green rolling gardens of the kingdom.
From south to north, from west to east,
O’er hedgerow and wooded dell,
Above the red-tiled roofs,
The sun roamed, unburdened of rain’s grey shadow.
Children raised up a chorus on the new airs,
Like so many lambs in the field,
And fell about the hilltop with chattering,
To and fro, busy of hand and eye.