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The hard azure on high That bends over the Spring Falls a tinkling, a thrill— Sudden, silvery, shrill; For the lark’s in the sky And his lyre-shapen wing Lifts the song in a spiral at will. In the East is the wind; At the fringe of the wood Shiver catkins of gold Or the fleece and the fold. Sure the eaning ewes find That the sunlight is good, Though chill Eurus, his scythe’s on the wold. Dawns a sweet lemon light Through the red-bosomed earth; Leaps and sparkles a train Along dingle and lane; For the primrosen bright, They are come to their birth And the daffodil’s dancing again.