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

VI

THE bobolink that sweetly sings Although the rain is on his wings; The light in darkness of the moon That builds by night another noon;

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Mine, mine, mine, all mine! The golden light in the sunset pine; The flush green heart of the maple spray When the sap comes up in the month of May; The multitudinous, close advance Of the singing grass and the little plants; The deep, resilient, lusty feel Of the turfy carpet under heel; And a wakened heart, that lifts and fills Like meadows in the April hills, Or when the bottom and the plain Are filled with the autumnal rain.