Magdalen Walks

The little white clouds are racing over the sky, 

 And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March, 

 The daffodil breaks under foot and the tasselled larch Sways 

and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by. A delicate odour is 

borne on the wings of the morning breeze, 

The odour of leaves, and of grass, and of newly upturned earth, 

 The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth, Hopping 

from branch to branch on the rocking trees. And all the woods are 

alive with the murmur and sound of Spring, And the rose-bud 

breaks into pink on the climbing briar, 

 And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire Girdled round 

with the belt of an amethyst ring. And the plane to the pine-tree

 is whispering some tale of love Till it rustles with laughter and 

tosses its mantle of green,  And the gloom of the wych-elm's 

hollow is lit with the iris sheen Of the burnished rainbow throat 

and the silver breast of a dove. Ee! the lark starts up from his

 bed in the meadow there, 

 Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,  And 

flashing adown the river, a flame of blue! 

The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

Oscar Wilde - 1854-1900