New Spring

The slender willow lashes
Are faintly touched with green;
A moorhen calls, and splashes
Among the reeds unseen.
In time past unembittered
We walked along this bank;
I threw flat stones that skittered
And bounced before they sank.
Still full of clouds and willows
The water spreads its gleam;
A dabchick dives; the swallows
Circle above the stream.
If now our thoughts move sadly,
It's not that we grow old,
But that we grow old badly,
Shamed at the heart, and cold.
Undimmed the fount of being
With freshness overflows;
Beasts drink their life unseeing:
The wise heart drinks and knows.