‘Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily?
Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.’
Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings,
Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing-
‘Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily;
Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.’
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I
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey:Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave youFor every day.IIBe good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:And so make life, death, and that vast for-everOne grand, sweet song.
See how the autumn leaves float by decaying,
So fleet the works of men, back to their earth again;Ancient and holy things fade like a dream.Nay! see the spring-blossoms steal forth a-maying,Clothing with tender hues orchard and glen;So, though old forms pass by, ne’er shall their spirit die,Look! England’s bare boughs show green leaf again.Eversley, 1848.