Many a morn did we wake to sorrow,
When low on the land the cloud-wrath lay;
Many an eve we feared to-morrow,
The unbegun unfinished day.
Ah we--we hoped not, and thou wert tardy;
Nought wert thou helping; nought we prayed.
Where was the eager heart, the hardy?
Where was the sweet-voiced unafraid?
But now thou lovest, now thou leadest,
Where is gone the grief of our minds?
What was the word of the tale, that thou heedest
E'en as the breath of the bygone winds?
Green and green is thy garment growing
Over thy blossoming limbs beneath;
Up o'er our feet rise the blades of thy sowing,
Pierced are our hearts with thine odorous breath.
But where art thou wending, thou new-comer?
Hurrying on to the Courts of the Sun?
Where art thou now in the House of the Summer?
Told are thy days and thy deed is done.
Spring has been here for us that are living
After the days of Winter's fear;
Here in our hands is the wealth of her giving,
The Love of the Earth, and the Light of the Year.
Thus came they to the Gate, and lo! the Bride thereby, leaning
against a buttress, gazing with no dull eyes at the coming throng.
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