The Last Spring

The first glad token of the Spring is here
   That bears each time one miracle the more,
   For in the sunlight is the golden ore,
The joyous promise of a waking year;
And in that promise all clouds disappear
   And youth itself comes back as once before,
   For only dreams are real in April's store
When buds are bursting and the skies are clear.

Fair Season! at your touch the sleeping land
   Quickens to rapture, and a rosy flame
   Is the old signal of awakening;
Thus in a mystery I understand
   The deepest meaning of your lovely name --
   How it will be in that perpetual Spring!

by Thomas S. Jones Jr.

Other poems of THOMAS S. JONES JR. (8)

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