And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

And ye talk together still, In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill.

Through tall cowslips nodding near you, Just to touch you as you pass.

The first wan cowslip, wet With tears of the first morn.

The shell must break before the bird can fly.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought/ With human hands the creed of creeds/ In loveliness of perfect deeds,/ More strong than all poetic thought.