A FAINT, soft breath from low-hung skies 

As if it swept o'er flowers; 

A languid sweetness running through

The long day's dreamy hours; 

The violet haze upon the hills 

Drops on the leafless trees, 

And in the west the setting sun 

Is drowned in purple seas.

A sweet, green prescience clothes the fields;

And in the rocky dells 

The violet and forget-me-not

Unclose their azure bells; 

The streams, released from icy chains,

Down the grim highlands flow:

And the great river's troubled breast

Is white with foamy snow.

The fruit-trees droop with crimson buds, 

A prophecy of bloom; 

The crocus and the daffodil

The garden beds illume; 

The pale arbutus springs to life,

And lifts its starry eyes 

In quiet forest paths, and haunts

Where mellow sunshine lies.

Anon, upon the crystal air

Rings out the robin's note; 

And from the tall elm, by the gate,

The bluebird's warblings float; 

The lambs bleat on the pasture hills,

And frolic at their play 

And all the earth is holding breath

To hear the step of May.