When evening came and the warm glow grew deeper, And every tree that bordered the green meadows And in the yellow cornfields every reaper And every corn-shock stood above their shadows Flung eastward from their feet in longer measure, Serenely far there swam in the sunny height A buzzard and his mate who took their pleasure Swirling and poising idly in golden light.
On great pied motionless moth-wings borne along, So effortless and so strong, Cutting each other's paths together they glided, Then wheeled asunder till they soared divided Two valleys' width (as though it were delight To part like this, being sure they could unite So swiftly in their empty, free dominion), Curved headlong downward, towered up the sunny steep, Then, with a sudden lift of the one great pinion, Swung proudly to a curve, and from its height Took half a mile of sunlight in one long sweep.
And we, so small on the swift immense hillside, Stood tranced, until our souls arose uplifted On those far-sweeping, wide, Strong curves of flight--swayed up and hugely drifted, Were washed, made strong and beautiful in the tide Of sun-bathed air. But far beneath, beholden Through shining deeps of air, the fields were golden And rosy burned the heather where cornfields ended.
And still those buzzards whirled, while light withdrew Out of the vales and to surging slopes ascended, Till the loftiest flaming summit died to blue.
The snows have fled, the hail, the lashing rain, Before the Spring. The grass is starred with buttercups again, The blackbirds sing.
Now spreads the month that feast of lovely things We loved of old. Once more the swallow glides with darkling wings Against the gold.
Now the brown bees about the peach trees boom Upon the walls; And far away beyond the orchard's bloom The cuckoo calls.
The season holds a festival of light For you, for me; But shadows are abroad, there falls a blight On each green tree.
And every leaf unfolding, every flower Brings bitter meed; Beauty of the morning and the evening hour Quickens our need.
All is reborn, but never any Spring Can bring back this; Nor any fullness of midsummer bring The voice we miss.
The smiling eyes shall smile on us no more; The laughter clear, Too far away on the forbidden shore, We shall not hear.