WILLIAM MORRIS.

297

vain,

O, steadfastly the sparrow sings,

And sweet the sound; and sweet the
touch

Of wooing winds; and sweet the sight
Of happy Nature's deep delight
In her fair spring, desired so much!

But while so clear the sparrow sings
A cry of death is in my ear;

The crashing of the riven wreck,
Breakers that sweep the shuddering
deck,

And sounds of agony and fear.

How is it that the birds can sing?

Life is so full of bitter pain;
Hearts are so wrung with hopeless
grief;

Woe is so long and joy so brief;
Nor shall the lost return again.

Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.

Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry

Make April ready for the throstle's song, Thou first redresser of the winter's 's wrong!