The poet, though he sang of death,Finds tunes for music in simple breath;Even the old, the sleepy-eyed,Are stirred to movement by the tide.But oh, the young, the aging young,Spring is a sweetmeat to our tongue;Spring is the pean; we the choir;Spring is the fuel; we the fire.Tell them spring's feathery weight will jar,Though it were iron, any barUpreared by men to keep apartTwo who when probed down to the heartSpeak each a common tongue. Tell themTwo met, each stooping to the hemOf beauty passing by. Such aweGrew on them hate began to thawAnd fear and dread to melt and runLike ice laid siege to by the sun.Say for a moment's misty spaceThese had forgotten hue and race;Spring blew too loud and green a blastFor them to think on rank and caste.The homage they both understood,(Taught on a bloody Christless rood)Due from his dark to her brighter blood,In such an hour, at such a time,When all their world was one clear rhyme,
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