Spring Morning
Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
Down to the stream where the king—cups grow—
Up on the hill where the pine—trees blow—
Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.
Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.
If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You’d sail on water as blue as air,
And you’d see me here in the fields and say:
‘Doesn’t the sky look green today?’
Where am I going? The high rooks call:
‘It’s awful fun to be born at all.’
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
‘We do have beautiful things to do.’
If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You’d lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You’d say to the wind when it took you away:
‘That’s where I wanted to go today!’
Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue—bells grow—
Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.
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