Alfred Austin Poems

In the Beginning when, out of darkness,
The Earth, the Heaven,
The stars, the seasons,
The mighty mainland,
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The Spring-time, O the Spring-time!
Who does not know it well?
When the little birds begin to build,
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The hills slope down to the valley, the streams run down to the sea,
And my heart, my heart, O far one! sets and strains towards thee.
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O beautiful bright world! for ever young,
And now with Wisdom grafted on thy Spring,
Why do they slander thee with wailing tongue,
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Now Winter hath drifted
To bygone years,
And the sod is uplifted
By crocus spears;
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Here are sad flowers, with wintry weeping wet,
Dews of the dark that drench the violet.
Thus over Her, whom death yet more endears,
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Wise Wordsworth, to avert your ken,
From half of human fate.
What is there in the ways of men,
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Breeze! brisk breeze! that movest with the morn!
Breeze! lithe breeze! that creepest through the corn!
Breeze! O breeze! that fannest the forlorn!
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If I to you but sorrow bring,
But aching hours and brackish tears,
And that poor drooping Hope whose wing
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Realm of ocean-guarded Peace,
Humming loom and grazing steer,
Farm, and forge, and woven fleece,
Happier, homelier, year by year,
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