“SPRING is coming," cry the swallows in the hedges; 

"Spring is coming," call the lambs upon the hills; 

  "Spring is coming," croak the bullfrogs in the sedges, 

On the margin of the little sparkling rills. 

"Spring is coming," murmur low the balmy breezes, 

As the bare boughs to and fro they gently swing; 

"Lo! The winter now his icy hold releases, 

Warmth and sunshine are returning with the Spring." 

"Spring is coming," say the buds upon the beeches, 

While the maples in the breeze their tassels fling. 

And each grass-blade from the mold its pale face reaches, 

And re-echoes, "Spring is coming, loving Spring!" 

"Spring is coming," cry the sunbeams gaily glancing. 

"From the sunny Southland, where she tarried long;" 

"Coming, coming." call the brooklets, blithely dancing, 

To the fields that echo back the happy song. 

"Spring is coming, coming, coming," cry the flowers; 

I can almost hear them growing 'neath the leaves, 

Withered leaves that strew the naked woodland bowers 

And the fields where fell the golden harvest sheaves.


"With the Spring time we are coming, and our faces 

Soon in all the verdant meadows you will see; 

In the hedge-rows, and the wild-wood's pleasant places, 

We will frolic with the butterfly and bee!" 

And the hill repeats the message to the mountain, 

The message that the fleet-winged swallows bring,—

And from every tinkling crystal rill and fountain 

Rings the joyous answer, 

"Welcome to the Spring!'