Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.
I wind about, and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling.
Arise, go forth, and conquer as of old.
If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
the shell must break before the bird can fly.
Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.