THE breath of spring is in the air, 

And in the damp morasses; 

The earth already groweth fair 

With hints of coming grasses. 

The bluebird warbles in the tree, 

With now and then a robin; 

And with the coming life to be, 

All nature's heart is throbbing. 

The brooklets tinkle in the glade, 

And silver-thread the meadow, 

Or steal along, as half afraid, 

They glide beneath the shadow. 

The timid crocus lifts its head, 

Above the dark leaves peering; 

The tiny violet from its bed 

Looks up, as nothing fearing. 

The ice has melted from the streams, 

The snow from off the hedges; 

In silver flecks the sunlight gleams 

Along the forest edges; 

And with a sigh of spring-like breeze, 

A sweet, delicious sobbing, 

The voice of bird and air and trees, 

All nature's heart is throbbing. 

—Good Words.