Spring. Here, where the tall plantation firs Slope to the river, down the hill, Strange impulses—like vernal stirs— Have made me wander at their will. I see, with half-attentive eyes, The buds and flowers that mark the Spring, And Nature’s myriad prophecies Of what the Summer suns will bring. For every sense I find delight— The new-wed cushat’s murmurous tones, Young blossoms bursting into light, And the rich odour of the cones. The larch, with tassels purple-pink, Whispers like distant falling brooks ; And sun-forgotten dewdrops wink Amid the grass, in shady nooks. The breeze, that hangs round every bush, Steals sweetness from the tender shoots, With, here and there, a perfumed gush From violets among the roots. See—where behind the ivied rock Grow drifts of white anemonies, As if the Spring—in Winter’s mock— Were mimicking his snows with these. The single bloom yon furzes bear Gleams like the fiery planet Mars :— The creamy primroses appear In galaxies of vernal stars ;— And, grouped in Pleiad clusters round, Lent-lilies blow—some six or seven ;— With blossom-constellations crown’d, This quiet nook resembles Heaven. Thomas Hood .