Poems of Philip Henry Savage / Philip Henry Savage [electronic text]

VII

A MONTH ago the cloud alone was fair. None watched the leafless tree-tops, thin and dry, Hold up their slender fans against the sky Save here a poet and a dreamer there. But now the sun through the soft, golden air Requires an incense from the flowers that lie Within a thousand vales; and low and high The broad earth doth a pale green mantle wear. Now voices are where all was still before; By each green leaf there trembles a brown wing; A thousand small lives wake beside my door And each one turns to labor and to sing. At last man feels the tumult of the spring And looks upon the universe once more.