Sonnet Xv Poem by Philip Henry Savage

THE warms moist kiss of April on the grass;
The stooping sun, the wet and fragrant plain;
The voice of life, low-whispered as I pass;
The vision of the summer through the rain;
A thousand thoughts borne outward from the mind
Laughing at nature, caught and held again
Close to the stirring hearts till like the grain
In autumn they are scattered by the wind!
And some may range along the open sky,
And some may fall and live and some may die.
I care not now whether the wanton air
Rid me of flying chaff or sift the seed
Of future promise; or if this, indeed,
My present fancy lead me anywhere!