Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/113

 The gift that is yours to inherit? Through you are the bleak days bland; Your voice is a light to my spirit; You bring the sun in your hand.

The year's wing shows not a feather As yet of the plumes to be; Yet here in the shrill grey weather The spring's self stands at my knee, And laughs as we commune together, And lightens the world we see.

The rains are as dews for the christening Of dawns that the nights benumb: The spring's voice answers me listening For speech of a child to come,