It was the thrush's song I heard
To-day, in March. And you who came
At life through books, whom poets stirred
To love of beauty, who the name
Of art revered and fancy knew
From earliest days,--why, how should you
Guess at my feelings when among
The elms I heard the thrush's song?
For you the country means a mood,
Recalls a poem, lays a scene;
For you its beauties are more good
Sometimes than paintings: it has been
Music to calm or move you, still
A background to your thought and will.
Nothing for me the country means:
It is. The thrush's earliest song
In the precocious sunshine cleans
My soul of culture. Comes along
The acrid smell of daffodil,
Hard from the soil still wet and chill.
These do not mean. I am content
To look or listen, passion spent,
Far beyond art and thought, and free
From Vanity and Jealousy,
As free as flower, or bird, or tree,
Not to mean anything, but be.
1901.