The Progress of Spring

It took me a few hours going through some old books, but I finally found a poem, here in its partial form, to celebrate spring. And yes, it's Tennyson.

The ground-flame of the crocus breaks the mould,

Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea,

Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold

That trembles not to kisses of the bee.

Come, Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves

The spear of ice has wept itself away.

And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves

O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day.

She comes! The loosen'd rivulets run;

The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair:

Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun,

Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bare

To breaths of balmier air . . .

A simpler saner lesson might he learn

Who reads the gradual process, Holy Spring.

Thy leaves possess the season in their turn,

And in their time thy warblers rise on wing.

How surely glidest thou from March to May,

And changest, breathing it, the sullen wind,

Thy scope of operation, day by day,

Larger and fuller, like the human mind!

Thy warmths from bud to bud

Accomplish that blind model in the seed,

And men have hopes, which race the restless blood,

That after many changes may succeed

Life which is Life indeed.