'Tis passing wonderful that they, The little boys of yesterday Who played with us, who teased us too, Should such tremendous actions do. No praise, no honour is too high For those who gave so cheerfully: Gave up the wonder of the spring, Gave up the wealth that summers bring, Gave up the gold of autumn's store, Leaving us richer than before.
Unflinching bravery of soul! Ring out your splendid deathless toll, Ring down the years untiringly In the hearts of the children-yet-to-be. The carillon of your ideals You'll hear again in their sweet peals; God grant that we may squarely fight For all you held to be upright.
He should be strong--as strong as Thor of old; And faults of strength 'twere better he possessed Than quavering mind or any lack of zest When the time needs a right arm coolly bold. Truth should to him be what the unpent song Is to the soaring lark; with kindly thought For everything that cold Misfortune's sought; With earnest faith to fight a cause proved wrong.
A heart that finds the best in every man; Impatient he should be at all delay Or if not giv'n at once his own sweet way-- (But then a fault or two is Nature's plan), Yet I would wish his chiefest fault should be A wilfulness to see no fault in me!
In my woodlands The primroses are peeping With pale, sweet golden eyes, In spite of Winter's weeping.
In my woodlands A thrush has just swung, dipping, In search of his spring voice; The trees stand dripping, dripping.
In my woodlands Harsh Winter coldly shivers; The windflower, white adventurer, With hope of springtime quivers.
Soon my woodlands, Bearing bannerets of Spring, Will be every moment musical With birds that, mating, sing.
Oh, Spring! Spring! Since the Autumn died in glory, How I have yearned for your coming Thro' the cloistral fog-bound days, Your beauty seemed a story That would never be told again. Spring! of the pearly cloud-skies Soft-curled as a baby's hand, Turquoise as children's eyes, Of rainbow-tinctured days And twittering song of the eaves!
Spring! You desired vision, The wind in your primrose hair, Your eyes, too, weepingly ready, Your face, an anemone fair; Your train, a burgeoning pattern Be-sprent with woodland flowers, Blackthorn, daffies, bluebells, Marking the flight of our hours.