Poetry Archives

Comes not the springtime here,
     Though the snowdrop came,
And the time of the cowslip is near,
     For a yellow flame
Was found in a tuft of green;
     And the joyous shout
     Of a child rang out
That a cuckoo’s eggs were seen.

Comes not the summer here,
     Though the cowslip be gone,
Though the wild rose blow as the year
     Draws faithfully on;
Though the face of the poppy be red
     In the morning light,
     And the ground be white
With the bloom of the locust shed.

Comes not the autumn here,
     Though someone said
He found a leaf in the sere
     By an aster dead;
And knew that the summer was done,
     For a herdsman cried
That his pastures were brown in the sun,
     And his wells were dried.

Nor shall the winter come,
     Though the elm be bare,
And every voice be dumb
     On the frozen air;
But the flap of a waterfowl
     In the marsh alone,
Or the hoot of a horned owl
     On a glacial stone.