O bird, that warblest full and free
From yonder gnarled old appletree,
Thy song, a cloud of sweetness,
In perfect sure completeness,
Has filled the listening earth, and heaven, and me.
Clear through the winter's gloomy reign,
Through days of toil and nights of pain,
With many cares attended,
And hope and joy suspended,
I've longed to hear thy melody again.
Through cold December's stormy blow,
And chilling frost and cutting snow,
That only intimated
A fury unabated
I've watched the dull procession come and go.
I cannot know why this should be,
Thou liquid soul of poesy;
Go, tell it to thy brothers,
This year, above all others,
I feel my heart's desire go out to thee.
But I have walked the hills with fear,
And felt the stinging blast severe
And day and night together
Have braved the wintry weather
Before the first small sign of Spring was here.
Now from the carpet of the ground
The rising flowers will soon abound,
And in the trees and bushes
The loud melodious thrushes
Will swell their native harmony around.
And see! already half awake
The blackthorn buds begin to break,
And in their mossy dwelling
The primrose shoots are swelling
And point their crimson spires along the lake.
The hazel buds, I've noticed, too,
So small and fine, so round and true,
From day to day increasing
Are broken with the blessing,
And the brown chestnuts wear a richer hue.
And lo! from her sequestered bed
The dear blue violot lifts her head,
And every living creature
Resumes the song of Nature,
And dull-browed Winter to the past is led.
Thus Time has added one year more
To his unnumbered dateless score;
The old fire still is burning
And the old wheel still turning,
Yet ever something slower than before.
O minstrel of the apple-tree
Warble thy passion loud and free!
Divinely sweet musician,
Thou scorner of condition,
Earth would be poorer for the loss of thee.
Title photography by Richard Bradshaw
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