Isle Of Wight - Spring, 1891.

A poem by Horace Smith

I know not what the cause may be,
Or whether there be one or many;
But this year's Spring has seemed to me
More exquisite than any.

What happy days we spent together
In that fair Isle of primrose flowers!
How brilliant was the April weather!
What glorious sunshine and what showers!

I think the leaves peeped out and in
At every change from cold to heat;
The grass threw off a livelier sheen
From dewdrops sparkling at our feet.

What wealth of early bloom was there--
The wind flow'r and the primrose pale,
On bank or copse, and orchis rare,
And cowslip covering Wroxhall dale.

And, oh, the splendour of the sea,--
The blue belt glimmering soft and far,
Through many a tumbled rock and tree
Strewn 'neath the overhanging scar!

'Tis twenty years and more, since here,
As man and wife we sought this Isle,
Dear to us both, O wife most dear,
And we can greet it with a smile.

Not now alone we come once more,
But bringing young ones of our brood--
One boy (Salopian), and four
Girls, blooming into maidenhood.

And I had late begun to fret
And sicken at the sordid town--
The crime, the guilt, and, loathlier yet,
The helpless, hopeless sinking down;

The want, the misery, the woe,
The stubborn heart which will not turn;
The tears which will or will not flow;
The shame which does or does not burn.

And Winter's frosts had proved unkind,
With darkest gloom and deadliest cold;
A time which will be brought to mind,
And talked of, when our boys are old.

And thus the contrast seemed to wake
New vigour in the heart and brain;
Sea, land, and sky conspired to make
The jaded spirit young again;

Or hopes for growing girl or boy,
Or thankfulness for things that be,
Or sweet content in wedded joy,
Set all the world to harmony.

And so I know not if it be
That there are causes one or many,
But this year's Spring still seems to me
More exquisite than any.

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