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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Sir Lewis Morris (1833–1907)

In Springtide

THIS is the hour, the day,

The time, the season sweet.

Quick! listen, laggard feet,

Brook not delay:

Love flies, youth pauses, Maytide will not last;

Forth, forth while yet ’tis time, before the Spring is past.

The Summer’s glories shine

From all her garden ground,

With lilies prankt around,

And roses fine;

But the pink blooms or white upon the bursting trees,

Primrose and violet sweet, what charm has June like these?

This is the time of song.

From many a joyous throat,

Mute all the dull year long,

Soars love’s clear note:

Summer is dumb, and faint with dust and heat;

This is the mirthful time when every sound is sweet.

Fair day of larger light,

Life’s own appointed hour,

Young souls bud forth in white—

The world’s a-flower.

Thrill, youthful heart; soar upward, limpid voice:

Blossoming time is come—rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!