There's many a pool that holds a cloud Deep down for miles, to float along; There's many a hedge that's white with may, To bring the backward birds to song; There's many a country lane that smells Of beanfields, through the night and day: Then why should I be here this hour, In Spring-time, when the month is May. There's nothing else but stone I see, With but this ribbon of a sky; And not a garden big enough To share it with a butterfly. Why do I walk these dull dark streets, In gloom and silence, all day long -- In Spring-time, when the blackbird's day Is four and twenty hours of song! |