Page:Poems, Volume 1, Coates, 1916.djvu/138



Y store is spent; I am fain to borrow:

Give me to drink of a vintage fine!

Pour me a draught—a draught of To-morrow,

Brimming and fresh from a rock-cool shrine:

Nectar of earth,

For the longing and dearth

Of a heart still young,

That waiteth and waiteth a song unsung!

Glad be the strain!

In the cup pour no pain:

Leave at the brim not a taste of sorrow!

Spring would I sing! For the bird flies free,

The sap is astir in the oldest tree,

And the Maiden weaves,

Mid a laughter of leaves,

The bud and the blossom of joys to be! . ..

Ay, Winter took all;

But I heard the Spring call,

And my heart, denied,