In Springtime



Ho, say, have you heard, in 'the sweet, fragrant woods,

The tale which the south wind is telling

How the trees are preparing to put on new robes,

And the little, brown buds are all swelling?

How the streamlets are trickling and tinkling along,

Set free from the fetters that bound them,

And the mosses and grasses are donning their green,

A pattern to all things around them?

How the flowers, hid under the blanket of leaves,

Are bidding each other good-morning,

And smiling and whispering there in the dark,

Each weaving her proper adorning?

The violet's purple, the pink of the rose,

The white of the lily are growing;

And faintly, methinks, comes the odor of each

On the breath that the breezes are blowing.

Oh come, let us go to the sweet, fragrant woods,

And list to the wonderful story;

The reign of dark winter is over and gone,

And springtime is here in her glory.




S. J. I.,

in Arthur's Home Magazine