我在风雪中走来走去，淅淅沥沥的细雨溅来溅去;没有迹象表明，光芒四射的春天已经站在门口了。没有迹象表明芬芳的紫罗兰燃烧着，冲破大地，加速生长;没有燕子归来的迹象，让北方所有严肃的人都高兴。但在我的胸脯里——这里是什么在颤动!多么美妙的歌声啊!多么可笑的声音啊!当然，这一年的第一只燕子已经在我的心里筑起了巢。2在四月的明媚日子里，天空柔和，风和煦，空气中有一种微妙的魅力，山上有一缕阳光; When silver clouds slide through the blue, Spreading a pure, transparent wing, And all the budding branches ring With blithesome birds, that warbling woo; Beneath a pear tree's shade I lay, Deep bedded in the long thick grass, And heard the twitt'ring swallow pass, And grasshoppers at endless play. I knew, though flowers mine eyes did screen, That butterflies danced in the light; For, breaking sunbeams in their flight, They flashed their shadows on the green. And gazing up, in dreamful ease, Where quiv'ring frail on shivery sprays, The blossoms mix a milky maze, What hum of golden-girted bees! So lily-white, the tree, behold, Seems set on fire by burnished lights, And shoal on honeying shoal alights, And turns the snowy boughs to gold. Thus on my spirit--music-fraught, Burst swarms of glimm'ring melodies, And like the yellow-banded bees, Make honey of my flutt'ring thought. III. Sometimes on my soul will throng Such a blossom-burst of song, That I cannot seize it all, Letting sweetest measures fall. Thus a child feels--sudden sunk On a crowding violet bank, And delighted and amazed, Gathers in a flushèd haste. Gathers them so fast and fleet, Little fingers cannot meet O'er the lot; and swifter still Than they cull, the wealth they spill. To that sweets o'erflooded nook, Casting back one longing look, At the last it takes away But one little odorous spray. Yet through many a day and night, Flinging back the fragrant sight, Cleaves to face, and hands, and feet, All the woodland's violets sweet. IV. Fain would I sing of each sweet sight and sound, Of fleeting odours wheeling round and round, Of sunbeams dancing on the virgin grass, Of flocks of fleecy clouds that glimmer as they pass. Of larks, that lost in the blue ether float, Of the weird blackbird's dream--enchanted note! While the glad hedges palpitate with song, That drops like murm'ring rain the dewy fields among. Of blooming bushes and of budding trees, Of flaming flowers, dotting the grassy leas, Of glowing pools and of the babbling rills, That flash through azure mists, slumb'ring on folded hills. Fain would I sing, sweet April-time, of thee, And mingle in thy wantonness of glee; But thou such overwealth of sweets dost fling, My heart is all too full, too full to speak or sing. V. There's somewhat in the loveliness of spring, In the young light, and in the fragrant bloom, In the sweet song that each soft breeze doth wing, In the bright flowers that rise from earth's dark womb; Which fills with sadness the presentient mind, And for a far-off home awakes the sigh; Which makes us gaze, with longings undefined, On dim blue hills, and weep--we know not why. VI. Oh, birds, winged voices! children of the light! Whose song is love, whose love is melody; Shedding o'er hedge, and field, and bush, and tree, Your tuneful joy and musical delight, Making the air, the earth, the heavens bright; Melodious, tender, sad and gay and free; By all these gifts true poets born are ye; Love circumscribes alone your restless flight. Poets, I say? Ah, not like poets here, That wander forth alone, companionless; Whose lays are wrung from them by care and pain; Who sing, while blinded by the hot salt tear. Not such are ye; but free from all distress, Ye, with the sunlight, range o'er land and main. VII. Oh, soft sweet air of early spring, Again thou float'st on viewless wing, Coax'st snowdrops their white bells to ring, And wak'st the blackbird up to sing. Again, upon the bright'ning lea, Beneath the budding bursting tree, The toddling baby-mites I see, Skip, jump, and frisk in lamb-like glee. But I am sad, I know not why; My breast heaves with the long-drawn sigh; The tear rounds slowly in mine eye; I'd like to lay me down and die. VIII. The blooming hedge, the budding grove, Resound with notes of joy and love; The gleaming bush, the glimm'ring tree, Live with a dewy melody. Along the meadow