Bryan Waller Procter (1787–1874)

IT is not that sweet herbs and flowers alone

Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep

In their great mother’s icéd bosom deep,

For months; or that the birds, more joyous grown,

Catch once again their silver summer tone;

And they who late from bough to bough did creep,

Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep,

And seem to sing of Winter overthrown.

No:—with an equal march, the immortal mind,

As though it never would be left behind,

Keeps pace with every movement of the year;

And (for high truths are born in happiness)

As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear,

And sees beyond the slave’s or bigot’s guess.