Immortal Joy

It is the time of green springing moss,

The first primeval heaving of the earth,

From winter's death and irreversible loss

A season comes of new and fruitful birth.

It is not the spring beloved of youthful times

Or the gentle blossoming of warmer isles

But a panoply of Nature as she climbs

From her sodden monsoon bed and brightly smiles

In sunburst and the brilliant songs of trees

Richly adorned, ablaze in waves of heat,

Flying their coloured scarves upon the breeze

And all the worshipping earth at Her feet.

I hear the sound of silent augur wings

And feel immortal joy in mortal things.