Poems (Van Rensselaer)/Spring on Long Island
SPRING ON LONG ISLAND
Not on the wind's high wingComes the SpringWhen she comes our way;Not on the chariots whiteOf the clouds of dayOr the pinions grayOf the wavering mists of night;And she comes not, over the roads of the land,By valley and plain where the great hills stand,By the forest path or the fallow plain.When she knows we are waiting againShe is borne by the sea from the south;There is salt in the breath of her mouth,There is brine in the scent of her hair,And everywhereThe lapping of water singsWith the bird-notes that she brings.
See how the coast-lines slipMore and more to the westFrom the pine-clad breastOf Maine unto Florida's palmy tip.See how our isle looks forthFrom its anchorage here at the north Toward the islands of Caribbee—Nothing between but the sea.It is there that the Spring abidesThe end of our wintertides.It is thence she comes on the shining flood,In a splendor of sunlight dressed,The north in her heart, the south in her blood,And her feet on the white wave-crestSo eagerly swift that we say she is near,And the day beyond she is here, she is here.
Then the blue of our sky is the blue of the deep-stretched sea,The green of our banks is the green where its shallows be,And its foam-wreaths bloom once moreIn the blossoms that spray us from shore to shore,Orchard and thicket and forest floor—Apple, azalea, dogwood, and allThe frail things snowy and smallThat clingTo the garment-edge of the Spring.