Thick Orchards All In White. (Hymn)

"The time of the singing of birds is come."

    Thick orchards, all in white,
    Stand 'neath blue voids of light,
And birds among the branches blithely sing,
    For they have all they know;
    There is no more, but so,
All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring.

    Only the cushat dove
    Makes answer as for love
To the deep yearning of man's yearning breast;
    And mourneth, to his thought,
    As in her notes were wrought
Fulfill'd in her sweet having, sense of his unrest.

    Not with possession, not
    With fairest earthly lot,
Cometh the peace assured, his spirit's quest;
    With much it looks before,
    With most it yearns for more;
And 'this is not our rest,' and 'this is not our rest.'

    Give Thou us more. We look
    For more. The heart that took
All spring-time for itself were empty still;
    Its yearning is not spent
    Nor silenced in content,
Till He that all things filleth doth it sweetly fill.

    Give us Thyself. The May
    Dureth so short a day;
Youth and the spring are over all too soon;
    Content us while they last,
    Console us for them past,
Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and noon.