From Plesheef
Spring
Ah! who art thou, fair maid, with upland flowers
Twined in the glossy silk of golden hair,
With smile sunbright, with eyes the dove in hue,
With raylike raiment spun from upper air?
Who gifted thee with deep mysterious power
To heal the aching heart of human woe?
At thy approach delights that long lay dead
Revive, and once again with glad life glow.
To honour thee a hymn doth Nature raise;
The babbling brooks and birds in chorus blend;
And pinewoods dark, shimmering in every spray,
To thee, as to a friend, their arms extend.
I’m but a Stranger-Guest, sent from on high
To weary souls a draught of peace to bring,
To soften wrath, to soothe fierce enmity;
I’m but a Stranger-Guest—they call me “Spring.”