Vernon Watkins
THE RETURN OF SPRING
The Spring returns. Green valleys, the sparkling meadows
Crowd gold, under larks, wry-rooted, the gorse, deep-scented.
Lovely it is to live, to turn the eyes seaward,
To laugh with waves that outlive us.
And marvelously the sundering, receding seawaves
Pound the resounding sands; they knock at the hourglass.
Thunder compels no man, yet a thought compels
him,
Lost, neglected, yet tender.
Why in the wood, where already the new leaves mending
Winter's wild net, cast fragile, immature shadows,
Do I tread pure darkness, resisting that green dominion?
What is the thing more sacred?
Taut branches exude gold wax of the breaking buds.
Sweet finches sing. The stream has a hundred voices
Unheard before. One leans on the grass like a bridegroom,
And death slips under the bride-sleep.
Wait for no second Spring in Bishopston Valley.
Once, once only it breaks.
If
you plunge your fingers
In
the stream, all secrets under the Earth grow articulate
In
a moment, and for you only.
Diamonds of light, emeralds of leaves, green jewels:
For me the unnoticed, death-touching script is more passionate.
Cover the tome with dust; there dwells the redeemer,
Deathlessly known by the voice-fall.
o
Spring, the box of colors, blue sky, green trees!
Has the brook ears? Donne has delivered
his
sermon.
Not easily you beguile the pulse, the footprint
Vaulted with intimate music.
