The Spirit Of The Spring.

The spirit of the shower,
    Of the sunshine and the breeze,
Of the dewy twilight hour,
Of the bud and opening flower,
    My soul delighted sees.
Stern winter's robe of gray,
    Beneath thy balmy sigh,
Like mist-wreaths melt away,
When the rosy laughing day
    Lifts up his golden eye.--

Spirit of ethereal birth,
    Thy azure banner floats,
In lucid folds, o'er air and earth,
And budding woods pour forth their mirth
    In rapture-breathing notes.
I see upon the fleecy cloud
    The spreading of thy wings;
The hills and vales rejoice aloud,
And Nature, starting from her shroud,
    To meet her bridegroom springs.

Spirit of the rainbow zone,
    Of the fresh and breezy morn,--
Spirit of climes where joy alone
For ever hovers round thy throne,
    On wings of light upborne,
Eternal youth is in thy train
    With rapture-beaming eyes,
And Beauty, with her magic chain,
And Hope, that laughs at present pain,
    Points up to cloudless skies.

Spirit of love, of life, and light!
    Each year we hail thy birth--
The day-star from the grave of night
That set to rise in skies more bright,--
    To bless the sons of earth
With leaf--and bud--and perfumed flower,
    Still deck the barren sod;
In thee we trace a higher power,
In thee we claim a brighter dower,
    The day-spring of our God!--

Susanna Moodie

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Susanna Moodie

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Susanna Moodie, Simple Poetry

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Susanna Moodie, Simple Poetry

English

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My eyes have seen another spring
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Once more on nature's ample shrine,
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To Spring

Fairest and loveliest of the sun-born train
That o'er the varying year alternate reign;
Whose eye, soft-beaming with thy father's fire,
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Still do thy beauties, to my partial heart,
Whene'er I gaze, superior joys impart:
When winter's cloudy veil thou draw'st away                            }
And, vested with the sun's mild, dewy ray,                            }
First to the longing earth thy charms thou dost display; }
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The Spirit Of Poetry

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
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The Spirit Of Poetry.

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
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Where, underneath the whitethorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
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Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
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O come to the meadows! I'll show you where
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The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,
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