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24c. 1850 AD
But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes Over its breast, to waken it, rare verdure Buds tenderly upon rough banks between The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; The grass grows bright, the boughs are swol'n with blooms Like chrysalids impatient for the air, The shining dors are busy, beetles run Along the furrows; ants make their ado; Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing gulls Flit where the sand is purple with its tribe Of nested limpits; savage creatures seek Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews His ancient rapture.
Robert Browning / quote
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