WHEN the warm sun, that brings 

Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 

'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 

Nor dark and many folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mold 

The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; 

Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly warbled song 

Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings 

Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along  

The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 

The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 

Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born, 

In the blue lake the sky, o'erreaching far, 

Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide 

Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 

And the fair trees look over side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet springtime! Many a thought 

Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; 

Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 


OH! Ho, ho! The winds are saying, 

Spring is coming full of mirth; 

You can hear her footsteps patter 

Lightly on the bright green earth. 

Storms may wake and winds be blowing, 

Clouds be full of gentle rain, 

Yet, be sure the grass is creeping 

Upward to the light again.