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 :::SPRING AIN and spilt blood and an appalling cry Turn the earth's air to poison and make bitter The bread we eat and lay across our sleep A quivering shadow like a gash that bleeds. We laugh and are ashamed as those who mock An open grave. And yet the wet stalks of the hyacinths Must soon, amid green spears, bear purple flowers! And yet, from rain-soaked earth and crumpled leaves, The yellow primrose, with a sweet swift pang. Must send Spring's perilous breath, sharp-shuddering With faint and delicate treachery, thro' our veins! Shall we henceforth before these hushed wood-things Stand dazed and shamed? Or shall we in strange mood Laugh weeping laughter, as those laugh who hear Infants make holiday upon a grave? Softly with pungent scent of fields fresh-ploughed The small soft misty rain through dripping boughs Washes the crumbling roots of fallen trees; Red-Campion droops his petals to the earth; While, wild and clear, from liquid rain-sweet throat. As though no graves covered the green earth's face, Bursts, as of old, the blackbird's shameless song.