Never yet was a springtime,
Late though lingered the snow,
That the sap stirred not at the whisper
Of the south wind, sweet and low;
Never yet was a springtime
When the buds forgot to blow.
Ever the wings of the summer
Are folded under the mold;
Life that has known no dying
Is Love's to have and to hold,
Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter!
The song! the green and the gold!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ever the wings of the summer are folded. Never yet was a springtime but still buds with sweetness are willing to bloom. A nice imagery this poem carries. This is excellently penned.