The Long Days Of Spring.

by richardhutton

Long days of spring are here again,
And will not soon depart;
Passing slowly –
Drifting by –
As gently beats the heart,

Of the weary traveller 
But resting on their way;
Beneath the laden boughs in bloom
That shade the heat of day.

Wind and sun and fields of rye
Have made a narrow path;
For the pilgrim journeying,
Belaboured with their staff.

Sometimes the spring comes early,
And the tender bud meets frost;
Young fruits are no sooner flowered
Than so swiftly lost.

And what of things unchanging?
What know they of spring?
Abiding still and silently,
As sparrows find their wing.

So swells the apple on its branch;
So finds the fledgling voice;
That makes the mother wary,
And the hawk rejoice.

So flourish weeds that bind –
From wild earth forth they shoot;
Along with thorns that bramble o’er –
Swollen with dark fruit.

What of those unsettled?
Not for a moment still;
Never finding rest or ease
Except for earthly chill.

Change makes the heart grow heavy;
Its lack makes travels long.
Then blows the wind of summer gently,
And silences all song.

The willow shakes her petalled limb
In early morning light;
At the merest touch of wind
A fall of streaming white.

Yet petals of the pear and plum
Alight on patient earth;
The resting place of all anon
Is to each the final berth. 

Wherein time’s passage ploughs,
Whereon every seed is sown;
Underneath the blossom boughs
Where none remain alone.

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