In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower-but if I could understand What you are, root and all, all in all, I should know what God and man is.
Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Thro' and thro', Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be fill'd with life anew.
Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last-far off-at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.
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