In meadows bright with verdure of the Spring,
Through which a stream pursued its lingering way,
Changeful in hue as changed the passing day,
A child plucked flowers and thus I heard him sing
With voice as clear as sky-lark on the wing:
“The jewelled year is all contained in May,
When birds are happy and the world is gay,
Then take whate’er the early seasons bring,
And weave thy crown;” and as the child drew near,
Years seemed to kiss his brow, yet left him bright,-
And fresh flowers gathering, without a tear
The others from his fingers fell, his sight
Caught many more, nor was he scared with fear
Though dark the winding river grew with night.
(John William Inchbold)
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