The cowslip startles in meadows green, 45
      The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
    And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean
      To be some happy creature’s palace;
    The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
      Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 50
    And lets his illumined being o’errun
      With the deluge of summer it receives;
    His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
    And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
    He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—­ 55
    In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

[Footnote 2:  In the Middle Ages kings and noblemen had in their courts jesters to make sport for the company; as every one then wore a dress indicating his rank or occupation, so the jester wore a cap hung with bells.  The fool of Shakespeare’s plays is the king’s jester at his best.]

    Now is the high-tide of the year,
      And whatever of life hath ebbed away
    Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
      Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 60
    Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
    We are happy now because God wills it;
    No matter how barren the past may have been,
    ’Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
    We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 65
    How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
    We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
    That skies are clear and grass is growing;
    The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
    That dandelions are blossoming near, 70
      That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
    That the river is bluer than the sky,
    That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
    And if the breeze kept the good news back,
    For other couriers we should not lack; 75
      We could guess it all by yon heifer’s lowing,—­
    And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
    Warmed with the new wine of the year,
      Tells all in his lusty crowing!

    Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 80
    Everything is happy now,
      Everything is upward striving;
    ’T is as easy now for the heart to be true
    As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,—­
      ’T is the natural way of living:  85
    Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 
       In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,
    And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
      The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
    The soul partakes of the season’s youth, 90
      And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
    Lie deep ’neath a silence pure and smooth,
      Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
    What wonder if Sir Launfal now
    Remembered the keeping of his vow? 95