Soft comes the breath of spring, it shakes the pear
White blooming; like a garden seems the mead
Thick with young gra**, on which the cattle feed
Tossing their heads at their dull wintry fare.
The bees seek honey through the moving air
That rocks the wild-duck on her nest of reed,
By the sunlit water: Man doth say "God speed,"
For joy the year's increase so soon to share,
Low, to himself he says it; where, alas,
Are the old rites? a dullard race are we;
Clear shows of inner feeling fade and pa**;
There are no pomps to greet Eiarine.
Our hearts reflect as a smoke-darkened gla**,
When like a prison of crystal they should be.