Ballads and lyrics / by Bliss Carman [electronic text]

Spring Song

MAKE me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir! When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers, And thy great heart beats and quivers To revive the days that were, Make me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir!

Take my dust and all my dreaming, Count my heart-beats one by one, Send them where the winters perish; Then some golden noon recherish And restore them in the sun, Flower and scent and dust and dreaming, With their heart-beats every one!

Make me of thy seed to-morrow, When the sap begins to stir! Tawny light-foot, sleepy bruin, Bright-eyes in the orchard ruin, Gnarl the good life goes askew in, Whisky-jack, or tanager,— Make me anything to-morrow, When the sap begins to stir!

Make me even (How do I know?) Like my friend the gargoyle there; It may be the heart within him Swells that doltish hands should pin him Fixed for ever in mid-air. Make me even sport for swallows, Like the soaring gargoyle there!

Give me the old clue to follow, Through the labyrinth of night! Clod of clay with heart of fire, Things that burrow and aspire, With the vainishing desire, For the perishing delight,— Only the old clue to follow, Through the labyrinth of night!

Make me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir! Fashion me from swamp or meadow, Garden plot or ferny shadow, Hyacinth or humble burr! Make me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir!

Make me over in the morning From the rag-bag of the world! Scraps of dream and duds of daring, Home-brought stuff from far sea-faring, Faded colours once so flaring, Shreds of banners long since furled! Hues of ash and glints of glory, In tim rag-bag of the world!

Let me taste the old immortal Indolence of life once more; Not recalling nor foreseeing, Let the great slow joys of being Well my heart through as of yore!Let me taste the old immortalIndolence of life once more!

Give me the old drink for rapture, The delirium to drain, All my fellows drank in plenty At the Three Score Inns and Twenty From the mountains to the main! Give me the old drink for rapture, The delirium to drain!

Only make me over, April, When the sap begins to stir! Make me man or make me woman, Make me oaf or ape or human, Cup of flower or cone of fir; Make me anything but neuter When the sap begins to stir!