Youth

And it is spring!
There is pale perfume, and unoped buds,
Unborn radiances; the half-veiled sun,
The soft new clouds, the pale, pale blue,
The faint stars, young grass blades,
The fresh loosed brook, the lovering birds,
The faint scrape of winged things,
The low of kine. Aye, it is Spring!
Such is my heart, a building scarce blown.
Sorrow is new, and joy-Ah joy is shallow!
Ne'er have I supped the potions of the day.
I am a web beneath the morning sun
Awaiting the dew of life, and it is spring-
Scarce spring! I have yet summer, aye,
And fall-and then the winter.
Let me learn to count the buds!
Let me learn the rare worth of pale perfume!
Let me count the rosary of spring!
Ere I pass, ere I pass.