SPRING QUIET

Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house;

Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
‘‘We spread no snare;

‘‘Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.

‘‘Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be.’’

—- Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

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