SPRING 97 



And the spring for the West is the will in the wings 



of a bird; 

 But the spring for the East and the West alike 



shall be 

 An urge in their bones and an ache in their spirit, 



a word 

 That shall knit them in one for Time's foison, once 



they have heard. 



So we are somehow sure, 



By this dumb turmoil in the soul of man, 



Of an impending something. When the stress 



Climbs to fruition, we can only guess 



What many-seeded harvest we shall scan; 



But from one impulse, like a northering sun, 



The innumerable outburst is begun, 



And in that common sunlight all men know 



A common ecstasy 



Arid feel themselves at one. 



The comradeship of joy and mystery 



Thrills us more vitally as we arouse, 



And we shall find our new day intimate 



Beyond the guess of any long ago. 



Doubting or elate, 



With agony or triumph on our brows, 



We shall not fail to be 



Better comrades than before; 



For no new sense puts forth in us but we 



Enter our fellows' lives thereby the more. 



