If thou wouldst know from whence the Spring is born,
It rises from the virtues of the trees.
Its slow approach to willows first it tells:
Crossing the mountains wakes the sleeping plum:
Entering the snows, it melts their silver flowers:
Ungeals the ice; loosens the water's glass.
At dawn it comes all holy from the East:
At night to East the Dipper's handle turns.
Its balmy breath in vasty space renewed
Comes in rejoicing with a new-born song.
But ere it spreads o'er all its mantle green
It needs the sun to mount the Tower of Pride.