There dwells a spirit in the budding year- br As motherhood doth beautify the face- br That even lends these barren glebes a grace, br And fills grey hours with beauty that were drear br And bleak when the loud, storming March was here: br A glamour that the thrilled heart dimly traces br In swelling boughs and soft, wet, windy spaces, br And sunlands where the chattering birds make cheer. br I thread the uplands where the wind's footfalls br Stir leaves in gusty hollows, autumn's urns. br Seaward the river's shining breast expands, br High in the windy pines a lone crow calls, br And far below some patient ploughman turns br His great black furrow over steaming lands.