THE APPROACH OF SPRING

Now once again, thou lovely Spring,

  Thy sight the day beguiles;

For fresher greens the fairy ring,

  The daisy brighter smiles:

The winds, that late with chiding voice

  Would fain thy stay prolong,

Relent, while little birds rejoice,

  And mingle into song.

Undaunted maiden, thou shalt find

  Thy home in gleaming woods,

Thy mantle in the southern wind,

  Thy wreath in swelling buds:

And may thy mantle wrap thee round,

  And hopes still warm and thrive,

And dews with every morn be found

  To keep thy wreath alive.

May coming suns, that tempt thy flowers,

  Smile on as they begin;

And gentle be succeeding hours

  As those that bring thee in;

Full lovely are thy dappled skies,

  Pearl’d round with promised showers,

And sweet thy blossoms round thee rise

  To meet the sunny hours.

The primrose bud, thy early pledge,

  Sprouts ’neath each woodland tree,

And violets under every hedge

  Prepare a seat for thee:

As maids just meeting woman’s bloom

  Feel love’s delicious strife,

So Nature warms to find thee come,

  And kindles into life.

Through hedge-row leaves, in drifted heaps

  Left by the stormy blast,

The little hopeful blossom peeps,

  And tells of winter past:

A few leaves flutter from the woods,

  That hung the season through,

Leaving their place for swelling buds

  To spread their leaves anew.

’Mong withered grass upon the plain,

  That lent the blast a voice,

The tender green appears again,

  And creeping things rejoice;

Each warm bank shines with early flowers,

  Where oft a lonely bee

Drones, venturing on in sunny hours,

  Its humming song to thee.

The birds are busy on the wing,

  The fish play in the stream;

And many a hasty curdled ring

  Crimps round the leaping bream;

The buds unfold to leaves apace,

  Along the hedge-row bowers,

And many a child with rosy face

  Is seeking after flowers.

The soft wind fans the violet blue,

  Its opening sweets to share,

And infant breezes, waked anew,

  Play in the maidens’ hair--

Maidens that freshen with thy flowers,

  To charm the gentle swain,

And dally, in their milking hours,

  With lovers’ vows again.

Bright dews illume the grassy plain,

  Sweet messengers of morn,

And drops hang glistening after rain

  Like gems on every thorn;

What though the grass is moist and rank

  Where dews fall from the tree,

The creeping sun smiles on the bank

  And warms a seat for thee.

The eager morning earlier wakes

  To glad thy fond desires,

And oft its rosy bed forsakes

  Ere night’s pale moon retires;

Sweet shalt thou feel the morning sun

  To warm thy dewy breast,

And chase the chill mist’s purple dun

  That lingers in the west.

Her dresses Nature gladly trims,

  To hail thee as her queen,

And soon shall fold thy lovely limbs

  In modest garb of green:

Each day shall like a lover come

  Some gifts with thee to share,

And swarms of flowers shall quickly bloom

  To dress thy golden hair.

All life and beauty warm and smile

  Thy lovely face to see,

And many a hopeful hour beguile

  In seeking joys with thee;

The sweetest hours that ever come

  Are those which thou dost bring,

And sure the fairest flowers that bloom

  Are partners of the Spring.

I’ve met the Winter’s biting breath

  In nature’s wild retreat,

When Silence listens as in death,

  And thought its wildness sweet;

And I have loved the Winter’s calm

  When frost has left the plain,

When suns that morning waken’d warm

  Left eve to freeze again.

I’ve heard in Autumn’s early reign

  Her first, her gentlest song;

I’ve mark’d her change o’er wood and plain,

  And wish’d her reign were long;

Till winds like armies, gather’d round,

  And stripp’d her colour’d woods,

And storms urged on, with thunder-sound

  Their desolating floods.

And Summer’s endless stretch of green,

  Spread over plain and tree,

Sweet solace to my eyes has been,

  As it to all must be;

Long I have stood his burning heat,

  And breathed the sultry day,

And walk’d and toil’d with weary feet,

  Nor wish’d his pride away.

But oft I’ve watch’d the greening buds

  Brush’d by the linnet’s wing,

When, like a child, the gladden’d woods

  First lisp the voice of Spring;

When flowers, like dreams, peep every day,

  Reminding what they bring;

I’ve watch’d them, and am warn’d to pay

  A preference to Spring.