Magdalen Walks

　　The little white clouds are racing¹ over the sky，

　　And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March，

　　The daffodil breaks under foot， and the tasselled larch²

　　Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

　　A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning

　　breeze，

　　The odour of deep wet grass， and of brown new-furrowed earth，

　　The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth，

　　Hopping³ from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

　　And all the woods are alive with the murmur⁴ and

　　sound of Spring，

　　And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar，

　　And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire

　　Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst⁵ ring.

　　And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some

　　tale of love

　　Till it rustles⁶ with laughter and tosses its mantle⁷ of green，

　　And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris⁸ sheen

　　Of the burnished⁹ rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

　　See！ the lark¹⁰ starts up from his bed in the meadow

　　there，

　　Breaking the gossamer¹¹ threads and the nets of dew，

　　And flashing adown the river， a flame of blue！

　　The kingfisher flies like an arrow， and wounds the air.