# A Little Child's Monument/A Southern Spring Carol

London: C. Kegan Paul & Co., pages 57–62
O Spring! O Spring! O Southern Spring! What a triumphal song you sing! All the valley sings! Nor only warblers who have wings; All the peach and almond blossom Seems young carol from their bosom In the form of flowers, Wandering every way On many a spray, Rills in the blue day, Very bird-notes in a spray, Filling all the valley. And I deem that, as they dally In the summer light intense, In the deep Italian blue, A subtle spirit influence May re-enchant them to a dew Of melody pure-hearted, Hither and thither parted, From the bosom of the birds,
From the gaily feathered herds, And they would be songs again, One rich rain! A peach-petal flutters down, A white moth hath softly flown, And we hardly know sweet note From fair vision as they float. All the valley sings! An angel kindles when he dips The fig's candelabra tips To chrysolite, while many a vine Amorously will incline O'er vistas of a golden trellis, Where a cool and shadowy well is, All overgrown with mosses wet And maiden hair and violet. O'er many a shrine Roses twine! Light green fountains of the palm Fall in a blue crystal calm; Delicate flushing lady tulips Close their lanceolate dim dew-lips, Their soft satiny repose By a light hand flecked with rose; Golden jonquils, white narcissus, Whisper softly, "Come, and kiss us Part us not from the sweet brood Of our companions in the wood!"
Earth's fair features, every one Instinct with spirit of the sun, Radiate well-married hues, Blent with air and ocean blues. Verily I seem to stand In a realm of fairyland, Or I take my dazzled station In some intense illumination Of a missal mediæval Yonder on the hill's upheaval, Where we hear the convent chime, Wrought by monk of olden time, Whom the cloister heard intone, And many a sun-bleached river stone, Or the darkling cypress cone. Cool grey clouds of olive fill All the foldings of the hill, While fair dawn-empetalled peaches Gleam athwart the bloomy reaches Of quiet harebell-mantled mountain Gemmed with rivulet or fountain, Shadowy evening robes, whose hem Shines with many a water gem: While rich oranges all golden, In a darkling foliage holden, Are a foil to the pale gleaming Of oval lemon, and the beaming Ampler cherry trees, one snow
Of blossom in the fading glow! In pale blue evening, Ah! the cherry seems to sing, With a fairy bridal dower! Pure white chalices of flower, Pendent in a pale blue sky, Shadowy blossom with soft eye! Dimlit amber mysteries We faint surmise, Where bees hover, And a soft moth-lover! Oh, I would that I might know The secret of your bridal snow, Soul of the pure ecstasy Softly haunting a grey sky. With such a grace Of spirit-lace! For it seems a happy ghost From the seraph host! Never bride dissolved in love, Never saint in realms above, Nor lark on his own music tost, Hath more joy than this, embossed, Shadowy, rare, On pale blue air; White cloud a-flower, A very shower Of still rapture unalloyed,
Too overjoyed For sound of singing! All the valley sings! A clear rivulet is flinging Warbled song to the pure air, Laughing, a young infant fair, Ruffling softly, swiftly passes Green-illumined among grasses, Or red anemone to wander, Where are violet, germander; Child pursued in play, to ramble, After such a sweet preamble, Among myrtle bowers and bramble. Green-pennoned canebrakes in the river All around grey arches quiver; While westering Apollo dulls Delvèd loam, and vivid pulse, A swart red-vestured toiler waters From rills, who are the river's daughters. All the valley sings! And rings, and rings! Ah! Nature never would have power To breath such ecstasy of flower, Vernal songs of happy birds, The young rill's delicious words, No iris hues might bring to birth, No heart were hers for any mirth, If he were turned to common earth!
If a child so fair, so good, Were a waif on Lethe's flood, If a soul-source of feeling, seeing, Were blotted from the realms of being! She from all delight would start, With such a horror at her heart, She would reel dissolved, and faint With deep dishonour of the taint! The very girders of her hall Crushed, her stately floor would fall. Ourselves are the foundation stone; If thought fail, the world is gone; All were ruined, wanting one. But all the valley sings! Nature rises on immortal wings! And soaring, lo! she sings! she sings! There is no death! She saith. O Spring! O Spring! O Southern Spring! What a triumphal song you sing!